War
by Joey51
Summary: The coach figured that the group of athletes needed to get away for a weekend to ‘bond’ as a team. Ryan couldn’t think of anything he would like to do less. COMPLETE
1. Chapter One

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A/N: There were a few minds collaborating to help with this one, and I want to thank them for all the time and energy they poured into this story. I appreciate it more than words can say. 

As for the story itself, it builds for three chapters, so stick with me - I'll get to the point eventually. 

Disclaimer: I own nothing. 

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War 

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Chapter One

War is a strange game, the only winning move is not to play -- War Games

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"Big bags under the bus. C'mon, guys, let's get a move on!" the coach clapped in encouragement.

Ryan shuffled to the side of the chrome-clad chartered bus, tossing his modest luggage into the first of three lower compartments, his backpack lost amongst the abundance of oversized duffel bags. He stared in pensive consideration for several seconds, wondering why all of the other guys seemed to have packed three times what he, himself, had brought along. Quickly, he sorted through a mental checklist to ensure that he hadn't forgotten any necessities, shrugging absently when no answer to this inequity could be found.

"Hey, Ryan."

Ryan turned his head to see Luke approaching - tossing his own excessively large duffel bag directly on top of Ryan's backpack. 

"Hey," Ryan replied with a half smile, still a little unnerved around Luke since the whole Julie Cooper ordeal. The guy seemed sincerely sorry, and Ryan had seen Luke's remorse through his blood-shot, puffy eyes, often in the week following the revelation. So, when he had called Ryan four days ago, suggesting that they be roommates for the weekend, he didn't have the heart to turn him down. 

"Get outta my way, fag." Luke was thrown a step forward, his arms raising just in time to prevent him from crashing face first into the shiny bus. Ryan watched as Luke's jaw clenched in obvious fury while shooting the perpetrator a warning glare, which was immediately shrugged off with an arrogant laugh by the receiver. 

Ryan tapped Luke on the shoulder with the back of his hand, in an attempt to distract him from attacking his tormenter. "Let's go."

Luke gradually tore away from his death stare and followed Ryan onto the bus, sliding in beside him into one of the front rows of seats. Ryan noticed that the plush loungers were nicer than any piece of furniture he had ever had back in Chino. 'Even their buses are luxurious,' he thought to himself as he fiddled with a control that caused his seat to vibrate in mock massage. Luke chuckled softly at Ryan's shocked expression to the unexpected animation of his seat, and Ryan let himself join in while struggling to find the 'stop' button.

As the bus filled up, the boisterous sounds of adolescent condescension floated towards the front where the younger and quieter players were situated. Ryan ignored the arrogant bragging competition and fixed his stare out the window as the vehicle slowly inched forward, picking up speed to compete with traffic. 

Johnny Prusek, the smallest - albeit fastest - guy who had been a teammate to Ryan and Luke on the Harbor School team, was hunched over in one of the seats closest to the front, his head undetectable above the headrest from behind. Most of the front riders were glued to the windows to avoid the crossfire of supercilious words that were being exchanged between the Abercrombie and Fitch representatives. Not long ago, Ryan would have labeled Luke with that same description, but an ousted father and an affair-gone-wrong later, he was just as insecure as poor little Johnny. 

Ryan wasn't even sure why he had agreed to sign up for the 'Elite Summer Soccer League' in the first place. The only reason he played soccer in the fall was so that he could have an extracurricular activity on his transcript. However, he, along with several of his Harbor teammates, was approached after the Private School Athletic League's season had finished, and he had given in. 

He had been told it was a good opportunity, and apparently an honor to be selected. The league was renowned for housing the most talented players in the west, where only the best of the best from all the private schools in the western states were brought together to form a super-league of sorts. It seemed like a good idea at the time. At the very least, it would be motivation to stay fit over the summer and improve his game for the when the fall season resumed. He had since regretted the impulsive decision. 

The prestigious 'Elite Summer Soccer League' was more a battle between the richest communities than a compilation of athletic ability. That wasn't to say that the team wasn't superior in athleticism, because it was, but there were other, hidden motivations. Though it consisted of a lot of the same old kids from High Schools in and around the general vicinity of Orange County, there were several older, more accomplished members on the team that were the epitome of jock - most of whom were in their senior year or had already graduated and were just prepping their games to compete against the ranks of their college affiliates - where they would attend with their hefty athletic scholarships. 

Ryan was somewhat nervous about the first tournament of the year. The team had just begun practicing as a complete group over a week ago, and he hadn't been able to attend because of a brutal cold that had been relentlessly plaguing him - forcing him to miss almost a full week of school. Despite his general uneasiness associated with not knowing half the team or any of the set plays, he had insisted - against Kirsten's will - that he was well enough to make the tournament. 

He claimed he'd done it because if he missed the first of many summer competitions, he wouldn't want to go to any of the following games - but the main, underlying reason was that he had promised Luke he would make the trip. Luke was the best player in the league at their shared position, and Ryan took comfort in knowing that he was second in line to the PSAL's leading scorer. Chances were good that he wouldn't even see the field anyway. 

"I hate that prick, Johnson," Luke spoke quietly, leaning closer to Ryan to ensure that their conversation could not be overheard. "You should have seen him in practice this week, he wouldn't give me the damn ball once. But I swear, If he calls me 'fag' one more time, I'm going to kick his prissy, college-bound ass."

"You might want to avoid beating up your own teammates," Ryan replied quickly, trying to deter Luke from even considering turning the immature rivalry into a scene on the field. "He's just an ass."

"I know, but do you have any idea what it's like to…" Luke stopped when Ryan's eyebrows raised. "Sorry, I guess you do know what it's like."

"Yeeeeah," Ryan's face showed traces of a smile as he subtly rolled his eyes. 

Luke smiled slightly, nodding while sighing, "Yeah, well unlike the past three practices, at least now someone's got my back."

"Are you referring to me?" Ryan questioned. "Because I can't afford to get into anymore fights," he half-joked.

"Well," Luke jumped in, "you can at least stop me from starting them."

"That," Ryan started, clearing his throat to regain his fleeting voice, "That I can do… or at least try."

The remains of the short journey were spent in silence. Ryan wondered why they needed to stay in a hotel for a tournament that was taking place less than an hour from Newport. Apparently, the coach figured that the group of athletes needed to get away for a weekend to 'bond' as a team. Ryan couldn't think of anything he would like to do less. 

****************

"Which bed do you want, man?"

Ryan placed his bag by the dresser and shook his head in confusion, "I don't care. Does it matter?"

"I don't know," Luke started, flopping face first on the bed closest to the door, "I'll have to check them first."

Ryan watched in amusement as Luke flopped around on the bed before getting up and proceeding to go through the same process on the other. 

"Yeah, this one's definitely better."

Luke turned around when there was no verbal response, and was greeted by a questioning, sideways glare. 

"I think I'm going to ask for a room transfer," Ryan stated quietly, as he unsuccessfully tried not to smile.

He was simply relieved that Luke wasn't sulking. Ever since he had been on the wrong end of Marissa's flailing hand a couple of weeks ago, he had been walking around like a stray puppy caught in the rain. Ryan couldn't even remember the last time he had seen him smile - let alone, joke around. 'It's amazing what can happen when you leave Newport,' he thought to himself. 

"So, my Dad called yesterday," Luke stated while fiddling with the air conditioning unit by the window. "He's coming to watch me play tomorrow."

"Yeah? That's good. Right?" Ryan questioned, not completely sure why Luke revealed the small piece of information.

"Yeah, I mean… Yeah, it's good. He didn't come to any of the school games last semester because… you know, it was still fresh on everyone's minds. But, with this tournament being out of Newport, and seeing as how things have settled down, I think it'll be good."

"Yeah, that sounds good," Ryan tried to sound genuinely happy for his friend, but it was obvious to him that Luke was still extremely awkward around his dad - even after all this time.

"Are the Cohens coming?"

Ryan looked down at his hands and smiled, speaking quietly, "Sandy wouldn't shut up about it this morning. He sounded like a kid going to Disneyland."

"So he's coming?"

"Yeah," Ryan looked up, making eye contact with Luke for a split second, "he's coming."

"That's cool, man. I mean, you said that no one really ever came to your games before… so…"

"Yeah," Ryan interrupted, swallowing and nodding, "It's good."

"What about Cohen?"

Ryan scoffed at the mere idea of Seth attending a sporting event, "I don'tthink he'd enjoy himself."

Luke shrugged, leaning back against the pillows on the bed which he had acclaimed superior.

"Besides, he's meeting Summer's family tonight," Ryan finished.

"And Marissa?"

Ryan let the question hang for several seconds as he tried to wrap his brain around how exactly he should approach a subject that included anyone whose last name was 'Cooper'.

"No," he shook his head, looking at Luke before turning his eyes to the draped window, "she's not coming."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw Luke's hands clench tightly in his lap, an apprehensive reaction to the tense topic that had arisen. 

"She won't talk to me…" Luke's voice trailed off. 

Ryan leaned back on the bed and fixed his eyes on the ceiling as he mentally fought with how to talk to Luke about the delicate subject of his fling with Julie Cooper, and how it ultimately affected Marissa. 

In fact, Ryan had only spoken to Marissa a few times since the immoral affair had come to an end. She had stopped by after school a couple times in the past week, but Ryan had asked Seth to tell her he was asleep. He just didn't have the energy or to console her anymore than he already had. Besides, she needed an unbiased confidant, and he knew that if she started voicing her displeasure with her mother, his own opinions on the matter would emerge and only serve to add fuel to her fire of hate towards the woman she called 'Mom'. She needed to forgive. They were family, after all.

"I think that she's more mad at her mom than at you, if it makes you feel any better," Ryan tried putting a light spin on things, but immediately upon uttering the words, he questioned whether or not Luke was ready for the conversation they were leading into.

"It's not just Julie's fault. I mean, we both made the decision to do it."

Ryan cringed, trying to force out the sordid mental pictures that Luke's words had imposed on his head. "She's an adult. She knows better. Well, she should know better," he paused as he searched for the words that could effectively sum up his anger without sounding like he was on the attack. "It was wrong. It shouldn't have happened."

"You know, that's easy for you to say. It's so easy for everyone to say how _wrong _it was. But you don't know, alright?! No one knows!"

Ryan recoiled at the sudden outburst, surprised that Luke would take such offense to something that he had openly admitted was wrong not too long ago.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry," Luke's voice was uneven and tired, indicating that he had struggled with those exact emotions continually over the past couple of weeks. 

"It's alright," Ryan replied quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling as Luke fumbled through a makeshift apology. 

"No," he leaned forward, looking over at Ryan as he spoke, his eyes showing his regret at jumping down the throat of the only friend that hadn't completely abandoned him. "You're the only one who's stuck with me through… everything that's happened… You weren't even going to come to this stupid tournament until I begged you to… I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

Ryan turned his head towards Luke, whose face and eyes conveyed the sincerity of his apology for what Ryan had considered a mild outburst. He couldn't help but think that the guy must be sick and tired of being sorry all the time. "It's alright. Really, man, forget about it…" 

A sharp sound interrupted their conversation and both boys spun around to see their door being kicked open - slamming loudly against the wall.

"Oh, this can't be good!" Terry Johnson sauntered brashly into their room, followed by two other guys that Ryan had never had the displeasure of meeting. "Two queers sharing a room! We can help you guys put the beds together if you want!" He glanced over his shoulder and was rewarded by laughter coming from his followers.

"Fuck you, Johnson," Luke made a move to stand, but Ryan held a hand up in front of him, preventing him from pursuing the matter any further.

"C'mon, Luke, they're just being assholes," Ryan muttered, but his quiet reassurance was picked up by the three swaggering antagonists. 

"Who the hell's this guy?" Johnson jeered, directing the question behind him - only to be answered by empty shrugs. 

"I wasn't allowed to bring my girlfriend but Ward can bring his boyfriend? No fucking fair!"

Again, his comments were met with riotous laughter. 

Ryan forced himself not to overreact. He knew they weren't worth it, and though he - and Luke - had been at the receiving end of far more insulting comments, there was something about that asshole that rubbed him the wrong way. 

A quick glance over at Luke made Ryan that much more uneasy. He knew that his friend was only a few words away from snapping, and if Luke got it in his head that he was going to kill, there was - physically - very little he could do to prevent such actions. 

"Let's leave these two fairies to their honeymoon suite," Johnson mocked while kicking the door for emphasis. 

The laughter slowly dissipated down the hall as the threesome made their way to their respective rooms.

Ryan sighed and tentatively turned towards Luke, offering a supportive half-smile.

"I was ready to kill that guy," Luke shook his head in frustration. "See why I wanted you here?"

Ryan nodded and sighed again, "Yeah."

**************

"Let's go! McGregor, Johnson, move!"

The coach's whistle pierced through the air after screaming each of the names. He shook his head in exasperation when both players casually strolled onto the field. He always had problems with the older guys, and from experience, it was usually their cockiness and overconfidence that lost him games. 

After careful observation of all the players on his new team during the past week's practices, he had obtained a general idea of who was friends with whom, and which players did not get along. In all of his years coaching, he couldn't ever recall having a team that was completely congenial. There was always that one rivalry that required at least one intervention from himself or his fellow coaches. Though he encouraged spirited competition between his players, he despised personal, inter-team rivalry. On this particular team, he was sure that if there were going to be any issues, Johnson would be at the root of the problem. 

"Ward, Johnson, McGregor, Prusek, McCauley and Atwood, take the front line," he bellowed, and watched as the names he had called separated themselves from the crowd and into their assigned positions for the commonly used drill. 

His brow furrowed when he saw Johnson subtly shove Ward from behind, saying something that he couldn't determine over the wind, but noticed that it spurred an outburst of laughter from some members of the team. 

He sighed shook his head. Ward had taken more than his fair share of abuse already from a guy that was essentially his teammate - someone that was ultimately supposed to have his back. It made him wish the team selections were based as much on attitude as they were on athletic ability.

He blew his whistle to start the drill and watched intently as two of the smaller players got the early lead, sprinting laps around McGregor, the most powerful - but by far the slowest - player on the team. The six players didn't let up as they all raced to the opposite end of the field, egos perhaps as much motivation as general competitive spirit. 

Johnny Prusek came out victorious in the race for the eagerly, sought-after ball, immediately dishing off to Ward, who proceeded to slam the ball into the top corner with incredible force - channeling his negative energy in a useful way. The coach nodded in approval. He had been impressed with Ward's composure, but he internally worried that it was only a matter of time before the kid was pushed too far.

All six players broke into a less eager pace, their energy tapering off after the long sprint. Ward subtly slammed fists with Prusek and received a pat on the back from Atwood - who was nearly doubled over and seemed to be having a hard time catching his breath. 

The coach watched Atwood carefully, since he had no idea what the kid was capable of besides the general impression provided through the scouting report. He didn't look like he was in game-shape, but he decided not to rag on the kid since he had apparently been under the weather for the past week. At least, that was the given reason behind his absence from the practices. 

He had been provided with an additional back-up report from each of the kids' school coaches, and Atwood had been described as 'the guy you want on the field when protecting a lead - defensively responsible'. Ward was his offense and Atwood was supposedly his insurance **- **when healthy. The team looked good on paper, but he was skeptical. There was very little about the collection of egos that would signify that they were, in fact, 'a team'.

McGregor, Johnson and McCauley were pushing each other and laughing as they made their way back to the start position at the near end of the field. Prusek was kicking the ball back as he jogged past the threesome, who together, probably outweighed him five to one. The coach mentally laughed when he realized that little Johnny's speed was probably the only thing that had saved him from being repetitively pummeled over the years. They couldn't catch him if they tried. 

He turned his head further to the right where Ward and Atwood were trailing the rest of the pack significantly, walking at a snail's pace because Atwood still appeared considerably out of breath. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, and he supposed it didn't really matter; he was just relieved that Ward finally had some back-up. At least someone was truly on the kid's team. 

*****************

"Johnny made a nice pass," Luke replied to Ryan's compliment on his shot.

"Yeah… He's faster than I remember," Ryan coughed.

"You gonna make it?" Luke joked, smiling as they slowly wandered their way back to the crowd.

"We'll see. I definitely don't have my legs… You better not get hurt," Ryan teased back, serious in his concern of being forced to play in his less than adequate condition. 

"What makes you think I'm getting the nod ahead of you?"

Ryan shot Luke a look that he immediately shrugged off. He knew that Ryan wasn't as offensive a player as himself, but he was reliable and stable when the game was on the line, and Luke had often found himself riding the bench late in games when the score was tight. 

"Yeah well, you and Johnny are our speed. McGregor drags the whole team down about ten notches."

Ryan laughed lightly, relieved to find that he was finally regaining his breath. "Yeah, he's… slow."

"Understatement of the year, Ryan," Luke interrupted, his voice louder than before - his statement not going unnoticed by their teammates.

Again, Ryan smiled, realizing that the other players couldn't have possibly known what they were talking about.

"Alright, everyone grab a ball, let's put a few on net." The coach's voice was followed by a shrill whistle that would indicate that he was in no mood for slackers. 

Ryan and Luke both snagged a ball and got in line for the goalie massacre. 

"Take it easy on him, we need him tomorrow!" the coach called out, his tone half-joking, but a hint of a warning dangled in his voice, as if daring his players to disobey him.

"So I guess I shouldn't creatively visualize?" Luke quietly whispered to Ryan.

"As long as you miss, I don't see the problem," Ryan replied slyly, aimlessly kicking his ball from one foot to the other.

Luke nodded, a determined look crossing his face as he took a few steps back and waited for his turn. 

Ryan watched as Luke pounded his shot just above the crossbar - the ball bouncing high in the air behind the net and rolling quite a distance as a result of the force.

"Ward! Don't push it!"

Luke almost looked guilty as he shot the coach an apologetic glance and jogged away to retrieve his ball. 

Ryan prepared for his own shot, stepping forward quickly, his foot connecting hard into his ball while mumbling, "Julie Cooper," under his breath. The ball whizzed rapidly through the air and found the far corner - the goalie sprawling out in an exaggerated attempt to make the save. 

"What did I just say?! Don't push it or you'll all be running laps!"

Ryan dipped his head and nodded, unaware that his kick was going to be as powerful as it had turned out. Luke - returning with his long lost ball - smiled at Ryan when he heard the coach's threatening words. 

"Who'd you picture?" he whispered.

Ryan just shot him a look that spoke volumes, forcing Luke to immediately break eye contact. "Yeah, that's what I thought," he mumbled, disheartened, his body language suddenly awkward.

The rest of the players cautiously left the edge off their own kicks, taking the coach's words to heart and avoiding the ever-dreaded laps. 

As the last player put his ball on net, the skies opened up, dropping what seemed like a year's worth of rain in a matter of seconds. 

Ryan watched in shock as McGregor let out what he could only describe as a girlish scream while running for shelter. 'What? Does he think he's gonna melt?' he thought to himself, fascinated and entertained by the dramatics of his teammate. 

The majority of the team followed, grabbing their respective coats off the bench before bolting towards the indoor coliseum. Puddles formed almost instantly - the water pooling into the otherwise unnoticed nooks of the well-groomed field. Ryan's eyes were drawn away from the wonders of the rainfall when he felt a pat on his back.

"You coming?"

He turned to see Luke, who was already beginning to follow the masses indoors. 

Ryan nodded, but first went to corral some of the balls that were left stranded in the middle of the sopping field before making his way to the bench, where the coach was grudgingly piling the balls into the large mesh sack.

The coach appeared pleasantly surprised when he caught sight of Ryan approaching with the rest of the balls in hand and at foot.

"Atwood, is it?" he asked when Ryan had come close enough to hear his voice over the sound of the pelting rain.

Ryan nodded, brushing his soaking hair off his forehead before bending down to help pile the remaining balls into the bag.

"Thanks," the coach's face showed traces of a smile - an expression that Ryan hadn't witnessed in the few hours that he had known the man.

Again, Ryan nodded, making a conscious effort to keep his head down to prevent the rain from splashing into his eyes.

"A man of few words. I like that," he stated, gathering his saturated book of plays from the bench and starting to make his way to the coliseum. "You can neutralize the loudmouths," he cracked quietly, once his back was turned.

Ryan laughed lightly to himself while launching the full bag over his shoulder, following the coach to join his teammates in the appealing warmth of shelter. 


	2. Chapter Two

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*Incase anyone was confused, I took this down for a couple hours this morning to make some much needed changes. Sorry for any inconvenience. Thanks to ctoan for the guidance.

Thanks for all the wonderful feedback. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. And extra special thanks to my technical support team that I so affectionately refer to as 'S.L.B.'. 

Like I said, allow for three chapters of 'building' before you expect war. Also, as I so ignorantly left this information out the first time around, this story is about two weeks post-'The Nana'. Without further ado, here's Chapter two. Enjoy. 

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Chapter Two

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So long as there are men, there will be wars -- Albert Einstein 

** **

12:57

Luke stared at the vibrant green numbers of the clock that were the sole lighting in the dark hotel room. He'd been watching the time change since he and Ryan turned off the lights over an hour earlier. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to find the glorious passageway that led to the sanctuary of sleep.

Their first game was scheduled for nine in the morning; meaning they had to be in the lobby at quarter after eight. Luke knew that if he didn't find sleep soon, he would be dragging his ass across the field for the majority of the first game. He really didn't need to give his enemies - his teammates - any more ammunition. Sleep was a must.

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12:58

He rolled onto his back, and stared at the slightly illuminated curtain that covered the window as it swayed lithely in the draft emitted by the air conditioning. Forcing himself to close his eyes, he willed sleep to come upon him and sighed as he tried not to think about what a disaster his life had become. 

Mistakes. He had made too many of them. They had to stop. They were destroying him. They were destroying his friends - what was left of them, anyway. 'It's time to start thinking with my head,' he decided silently. 'Starting tomorrow, I will put this mess behind me. No more thinking about Julie, Marissa, my gay dad, my asshole teammates… It's going to be different; it's got to be different.'

12:59

Ryan coughed and stirred slightly, and Luke couldn't help but feel envious that, for the most part, his friend had been sleeping soundly for the past hour and a half. He had been so relieved earlier in the week, when Ryan had agreed over the phone to attend the tournament and room with him. Honestly, he wasn't sure he would have come himself if Ryan had decided not to make the trip. There was something about having someone standing behind you that just compounded confidence. 

Luke admired the fact that Ryan could just take it all in stride. Johnson had all but called him Luke's bitch, and he didn't seem at all phased or concerned at the label with which he was instantly tagged, just by being associated with Luke. Sure, Luke had seen the guy snap - and far too frequently he'd borne the brunt of it - but Ryan seemed to have an amazing ability of not letting all the 'Johnsons' of the world get to him anymore. It was a quality that Luke was struggling to adopt himself. 

He had noticed that Ryan traveled with a backpack. Every other guy on the team had brought clothes for practice, partying, playing and more, but Ryan seemed content to bring what he absolutely needed. Luke wished he could live as minimally as his quiet friend. Recently, more than anything, he wanted to live the simple life - he wanted to travel with a backpack. 

The beep of his watch signified the dawn of a new hour. 

*****************

Ryan woke to the sound of the toilet flushing - his ears immediately flooded with the horrid screeching of a tune that was reminiscent to that of an eighties remix gone wrong.

"Yeah, we should've changed the station before setting the alarm." Luke commented as he reentered the room, catching sight of Ryan's perturbed expression. He laughed slightly before adding, "Wow, this is _really_ bad."

Ryan rolled over onto his stomach and buried his head in his pillow, willing the horrible excuse for music to stop. The sound of rapidly changing channels meant that Luke was at least trying to find something a little more bearable. The noise finally settled into the droning tones of an alternative rock station. 

"You getting up? We gotta be in the lobby in fifteen."

Ryan remained completely still as he fought to part the thick fog in his sleep-filled head and swallow the dryness in his mouth and throat. 

"Well, I'm going to grab a drink from the vending machine. You want anything?" Luke questioned and sorted through a pocketful of change.

"Naw," Ryan mumbled into the pillow. "Thanks anyway."

When Ryan heard the door close, he tossed off the covers and slammed his fist into the alarm clock. Mornings were never his forte, but getting up early after experiencing the luxury of sleeping in for the majority of the previous week, proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated. 

He stumbled to the dresser where he had unloaded his clothes the night before, and grabbed his 'SoCal' uniform before heading to the bathroom. There, he immediately went to the sink and filled a cup with semi-cold water, downing the contents and grimacing at the stinging sensation that followed in his throat. He sighed as he started to put on the professional-style gear. Never mind Johnson, it would appear that he was his own worst enemy today.

The door opened shortly after Ryan exited the bathroom, and Luke wandered in with a bottle of Gatorade and a muffin in hand. 

"You got that from the vending machine?" Ryan questioned in confusion as he ran a hand over his head in a poor attempt to smooth out his hair.

Luke shook his head as he popped a huge chunk into his mouth. "Prusek brought a couple up from the lobby," he spoke inarticulately through a mouthful of food. 

Luke held out the remaining half to Ryan in a generous offering, but he shook his head in response, "I'm good, thanks."

Luke shrugged and popped the remains into his mouth before he had finished chewing the initial portion. "C'mon," he mumbled incoherently. "Gotta go."

Ryan pushed himself off the bed and grabbed the bag that contained his cleats before following Luke out the door - yawning palpably as he entered the hallway.

"Rough night?" A mocking voice called from across the hall. "I can only imagine what…"

"Can it, Johnson." 

Terry Johnson jumped in surprised at the presence and gruff warning from their coach. Johnson's face blushed significantly at being caught in the act and he immediately shut his mouth and fixed his eyes on the floor while making his way towards the elevator.

Luke and Ryan stood in place, listening to the irritated grumbling emitted by the coach as he strode past. 

"Hey, at least someone's on our side," Luke stated quietly, once they were out of earshot. 

"Our _side_?" Ryan whispered back. 

Luke nodded, realizing how irrational his resolution from the night before had been - there was no way to completely avoid people like Johnson. Patting his friend on the shoulder, he added, "Afraid so. Like it or not, you're stuck with me, pal."

"Right," Ryan mumbled worriedly as he followed Luke to the elevator. "There are sides…"

***************

"Balls over here. Let's go!"

The coached growled under his breath as McCauley, Johnson and McGregor each proceeded to take another shot on net, blatantly rebelling against his authority. He was sure that those three, over-sized, cocky brats were going to be the end of him, and he sighed in frustration while rubbing his temples to ease the tension headache they had caused.

He watched as the majority of the team neatly stored their balls under the bench. Atwood and Ward were the first to return to the area in front of him, waiting for further instructions. He shot them something that resembled a thankful smile before angrily blowing his whistle again and trying to refrain from yelling obscenities at the slackers that were leisurely strolling back to join the pack. 

"Alright, listen up," he started, shooting warning glares at McCauley and Johnson as they approached. "We've got Northern California in the first game in five minutes, and Phoenix at two this afternoon. Both are exhibition games. Tomorrow, we have to win them all to stay in. If we lose, we're going home."

He briefly scanned the faces of his players for a response, but received little to no reaction. He wished they would show even just half the enthusiasm towards the sport as they did when competing against each other. 

"We'll go with the starting line-up we talked about last night. Subs be ready - we're not going to let anyone get too tired in these first couple games."

The eleven starting players moved to the field. "That's not to say that we can lose these games," he called out loudly, "We're here to win!" He waved an arm in frustration as he was casually shrugged off by his unimpressed bunch, and made his way to the bench where he grabbed his binder and started jotting down the numbers of his starting line-up for the game sheet. 

"Atwood," he spoke loudly, not removing his eyes from the page in front of him.

"Yeah," Ryan answered quickly, nervous all of a sudden for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"I never did get your number."

"Twenty-seven," he replied, unsure of whether or not he was indeed wearing the same number that he had worn during the school year. Luke had dropped his uniform off after practice one day last week and Ryan hadn't bothered checking. He casually looked down to the bottom of his left shorts-leg, where the silver number had been expertly stitched, and sighed when he realized he was in fact sporting the number twenty-seven. 

The coach pocketed his whistle as if trying to avoid the temptation of using it during the game, and started pacing in front of the bench, yelling out instructions as the starting players prepared for the coin toss.

Ryan squinted against the bright morning sun as it reflected off the dew perched across every blade of dark green grass - the wetness still present from the heavy rainfall the night before and the air thick with humidity. He watched as Luke lost the coin toss, much to the pleasure of Johnson, who flanked him on the left side. The two exchanged bitter words, but Ryan didn't bother straining himself to determine exactly what the Neanderthal was saying. He apparently considered himself funny, though, laughing loudly and arrogantly at his own attempt at humor. Clearly, he was his own biggest fan.

"Shut-up and play the game, you moron," Ryan muttered under his breath, unaware that the coach was standing within earshot. 

"Atwood." 

Ryan jumped. He could almost feel the breath of the coach on his neck, his voice a serious, deep growl, making the hair on his arms stand up on end. 

"I've got enough problems with this team as it is. You stay out of it, you hear?"

Ryan nodded solemnly, keeping his eyes on the field and not bothering to turn around to acknowledge the warning face to face. The coach pulled back quickly and started into another rant was directed towards his midfielders. 

North California's bright yellow jerseys contrasted nicely with the sky-blue and silver uniforms of their Southern counterparts. Both clubs started off tentatively, not risking injury or exhaustion in a game that - in the long run - didn't really matter. Eventually, though, the house-league atmosphere gave way to the inevitable; the rivalry of the neighboring regions embracing in a brutally competitive battle of conceit, muscular superiority and egotism. It was an acrimonious battle of North vs. South - both teams giving it everything they had for the sole reward of bragging rights.

The benched players unconsciously made the effort to stand as the competition intensified. The coaches engaged in their own contest as their voices rose several decibels, cracking as each finished screaming his commands. 

By half-time, the soft field had been chewed into a muddy disaster, and the players were dripping with sweat from the heat of battle under the scorching Californian morning sun. 

Luke jogged over, breathless and completely engrossed in the game at hand. "Damn," he panted, while swallowing back a good portion of Gatorade, "that team's stacked."

"Pretty brutal out there, man," Ryan agreed, wiping the humidity off of his own forehead with the back of his hand. 

"I think half those guys have collegiate scholarships, too…"

"Jesus, Ward," Johnson spat, pushing Luke into Ryan from behind. "Now you're hitting on guys from the other team, too? Your boyfriend here's gonna get jealous!"

Laughter erupted, but was quickly silenced when Luke spun around to face his opponent, his jaw set in determination as his eyes dared Johnson to say another word.

"Hey, guys, c'mon…" Ryan tried to interrupt, but was immediately hindered by McGregor, who had approached from behind.

"What the hell are you gonna do, huh?" he antagonized, jabbing Ryan sharply in the ribs with his elbow.

Ryan spun to face McGregor, fuming and dangerously close to snapping on his much larger teammate.

"Hey! What the hell's the problem here?" the coach yelled, beyond irritated that his players were more focused on taking on each other than their actual opponents. 

Ryan stood his ground against McGregor, who eventually backed away at the coach's intervention. 

"No more of this crap, you hear me?! We're a team, God dammit!" he slammed his clipboard to the ground as he yelled and was met by several shocked expressions from his players, as well as from the parents and onlookers who were all curiously observing his tirade from the bleachers on the opposite side of the field.

With a huff, he reached down, picked up his board and made eye contact with each and every player involved in the minor scuffle before storming out of the circle.

Ryan turned slowly, making a conscious effort to calm himself. Luke appeared to be going through the same internal process. They both stood stationary for a second, taking deep breaths before catching each other's eyes. 

Luke's gaze was almost immediately drawn elsewhere, his face paling significantly as he whispered his dismay, "Shit…"

Ryan's brow furrowed in confusion as he turned around and tried to follow his friend's line of vision. Mr. Ward was walking down toward the field from the parking lot.

"Hey, don't worry about it, I'm sure that…"

A loud whistle signaled the end of half-time, and Luke shook his head, his anxiety obvious as he made his way back towards centerfield. 

Ryan's eyes followed Luke's father as he settled in amongst the crowd in the packed bleachers. The day before, Luke had seemed genuinely happy that his dad was coming to watch him play, but with the constant mockery from his teammates, it was obvious that he no longer thought it was a good idea. 

The ball was kicked into play once again, and Ryan watched as the white object was quickly covered in a thick layer of mud - the players not letting off in the slightest despite the less than ideal conditions. 

Prusek continued to run circles around the majority of his opponents and teammates, which threw off the defense forming enough that he was able to find Luke, wide open and available. The striker made no mistake, pounding the ball into the close side of the net. The celebration was minimal compared to the intensity of the game. A few small pats and encouraging words followed from the midfielders - Johnson, McGregor and McCauley turned away to avoid the celebratory encounter altogether. 

The bench cheered loudly, and Ryan found himself pounding fists with some teammates whose names he couldn't remember. 

"Good job, Ward, Prusek. Let's sub! C'mon, hustle!"

Ryan held his breath momentarily. He wasn't sure he'd be able to repetitively run from one end of the field to the other and keep up with the rapid pace of this particular game, without collapsing. Much to his relief - at least for the time being - the coach kept Luke on the field.

McCauley slapped hands with his sub as he jogged off, planting himself beside Ryan on the far end of the bench. Ryan tensed, unsure of whether he could refrain from punching the guy's lights out if he instigated another confrontation. 

Instead of allowing himself to be easily egged on or bothered by the comments that McCauley was mumbling under his breath, he zoned his entire focus into the game. 

The ball was kicked the full distance of the field, and Ryan watched as Southern California went on the offensive, charging down on the target as they raced against Northern California's defensive complement. Luke and Johnson were neck and neck, and it quickly became apparent that it was no longer a battle between teams, it was personal. Ryan braced himself, clenching his fists in anticipation of the inevitable showdown and fearing the worst as they both closed in on the rolling ball. 

As the two SoCal players got within feet of the finish line, the opposing team's defensive players came into view. Luke drew his foot back, ready to pound the ball on net and ultimately win the race, but was harshly stopped short, slipping on a patch of mud and awkwardly falling over on his ankle - sliding several feet on the slick grass. 

A mild collision followed, as the other players failed to halt their momentum before they crashed into the fallen player. Luke hissed in discomfort, immediately clutching at his ankle. Obscenities were instantly exchanged as limbs were disentangled. Luke tried desperately to pull himself to his feet - limping painfully as he tried to drag his body back to the bench. 

"Help him!" the coach screamed to his midfielders as they tried to divert their eyes from their distressed teammate.

Ryan rose to his feet, concern etched on his face as he watched Luke accept the supportive crutches of his teammates' shoulders.

"Take him to the EMTs," the coach called out more sympathetically as the three players neared the bench. 

"You okay, man?" Ryan asked when Luke was carried past.

"Fuck… no," Luke replied through clenched teeth before being swept to the medical tent behind the bench. 

"Atwood!" Ryan spun at the sound of his name. 

"Let's go - you're in."

Ryan nodded, immediately jogging onto the field, not allowing himself a chance to think - or to breathe. With a quick glance around the field, he attempted to prepare himself physically for the fifteen minutes of storm he would have to weather. He was coming in cold while everyone else was loose - ready. He couldn't help but feel like he was being fed to the wolves. All he could do was focus. Play the game he had always played. Simple. Safe.

"You're actually on this team?!" Johnson remarked as Ryan jogged past on his way into his position. 

Ryan didn't respond - unwilling to engage in another battle of words with one of his own teammates. He clenched his jaw and pulled at all his internal strength to remain indifferent to Johnson's berating.

"Oh, what? You don't want to talk without your boyfriend behind you?!"

Soft sounds of muffled laughter filtered through the air - Ryan's shoulders tensed as Johnson continued to harass him.

'He's not worth it,' he kept repeating to himself.

"That's all you've got, _Atwood?_" Johnson's voice was full of malice, more angry at not being able to get a rise out of Ryan. "You and Ward better watch your backs. Stupid fags…"

Ryan continued to stare straight ahead, making no acknowledgment of the spiteful threats being hurled in his direction.

The other players settled into their respective positions; a quiet hush accompanied the anticipation of resumed play. 

"Now I just have to make it out alive," Ryan muttered under his breath, his eyes following the ball as it soared through the air - launching back into play and recommencing the battle.


	3. Chapter Three

_A/N - Because I fear for my life, I'm going to post this chapter now. I'm begging all TWoP'ers to please put away the pitchforks, whips and stale timbits for the time being! I apologize for the ridiculously long wait, and I only hope that it wasn't all for not. Super special thanks to my support team. You guys are incredible._

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 3

You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake -- Jeannette Rankin

"Hey!" Sandy called out, removing his sunglasses while approaching Ryan on the sidelines as the game came to a close. "Nice win. I only caught the last bit, but you looked good out there. It's…." He paused, looking at Ryan who was hunched over, panting heavily, hands on his knees. Glancing up and down at his dirty uniform, he finished, "Muddy?"

Ryan eyes fell over his mud-caked jersey and socks. The blue and silver were no match for the dark brown of the fresh, sticky substance.

"Yeah," Ryan replied with a small smile before coughing several times, still struggling to catch his breath after the maddening rush of the final play.

"Did you play the whole game? I thought you said you didn't expect to play." Sandy waited patiently for a response to his concerned question. 'Kirsten would flip,' he thought to himself.

Ryan rose up, shaking his head as he drew in another strained breath, "That was the plan," he panted, "but Luke… hurt his ankle."

Sandy grimaced as he scanned the torn-up field. "I must have missed that. Is he okay?"

Ryan shrugged, "Don't know… I went in as he came out… didn't look good."

"That's a shame." Sighing, Sandy turned back to face Ryan. "When's your next game?"

Ryan coughed again. "Two, I think."

"Why don't you go grab a drink, clean up a bit, then come and join me for a bite to eat?"

"Sure," Ryan nodded, "Just give me a sec…." He turned and walked tiredly across the field toward the rest of the team - where most of Southern California's players were sprawled across the grass or sitting on the bench in sheer exhaustion.

Sandy placed his glasses back over his eyes, an odd sense of pride washing over him as he watched Ryan join his teammates. Seth had never been big into playing sports - or sports at all for that matter - and though he never really felt as though he was missing out on much as a parent, coming to watch someone he considered his son compete, made his heart swell.

He would never tell Seth.

………………………………...............................

Ryan rapped his hand lightly on the tarp-like material of the medical tent in an improvised knock, as he stuck his head inside and scanned for Luke.

"Hey," an unenthusiastic greeting came from the corner.

Ryan squinted as his eyes adjusted and gave a sad smile when he came into focus on Luke's despondent form - his foot propped up on a chair, surrounded by ice packs.

"How is it?" Ryan asked tentatively, entering the tent fully and cringing slightly as his eyes settled on the already swollen ankle.

Luke gestured toward the foot fleetingly, a frustrated expression forming on his face, "Hurts like a bitch. It better not be broken…."

"You think it is?" Ryan was suddenly more concerned. He'd never seen someone try to walk on an a broken leg before, which had led him to assume it wasn't that severe an injury.

Luke shrugged. "I've broken it before and it pretty much felt like this." His face lightened significantly as he caught Ryan's eyes. "Did we win?"

"Yeah," Ryan mumbled while wiping at the sweat on his face with the back of his muddy arm. "You scored the winner."

Luke nodded as he stared blankly at an imaginary spot on the ground.

"So," Ryan continued when there was no response, "I guess that you'll be going home with your dad then?"

……………….

Luke thought about the comment for a second. He hadn't really considered going home, but it made sense - he was sure he wasn't going to see the field again in this tournament.

He felt guilty about eliminating himself from the team and even though he knew it was a freak accident that was nearly impossible to avoid, it was as if he had let Ryan down. The guy was not fit to play, and he felt somewhat responsible for putting him in that position - especially so early in the tournament. If he went home, Ryan would be stuck here - alone.

Alone at a tournament he wasn't even going to attend in the first place. Ryan had stuck with him through all the turmoil; he figured the least he could do was return the favor.

"Nah, I'll stay."

Ryan's eyes widened, obviously surprised and appearing mildly relieved. "Yeah? Why? I didn't think there was any hope of you playing again."

"No, there isn't, really. But, you know, I might as well ride it out. I don't want to give those assholes the chance to spread rumors behind my back."

………………

The excuse was weak, but Ryan wasn't going to argue. Without Luke - even a hurt Luke - he would become a huge, unprotected target. Under normal circumstances, he could handle that. He was used to being a target - an outsider. But this particular situation was different. He couldn't fight back. He had to find alternative methods of dealing with his enemies. The fists had to stay down - this was his team.

"So you're staying…." It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement searching for validation.

Luke nodded while shrugging, "Not like I have anything else to do this weekend. Especially now." He pointed at his foot.

"Okay, man, well good luck at the hospital. I gotta jet. Sandy's waiting for me - we're gonna go grab something to eat."

"Thanks," Luke forced a smile as he received the well-wishes. "Hopefully I'll be back before then next game."

Ryan sighed, suddenly feeling very drained at the mere mention of having to partake in another exhaustive competition. "Right," he mumbled, "I suppose I'm in for that one."

Luke nodded. "You're the man now, Atwood. Rest up!"

Ryan allowed a small smile to cross his face at the subtle exhibition of humor that emerged from his ailing friend. "You're killing me, man."

Luke shrugged apologetically as Ryan tossed him a half-hearted wave before making his way back toward the bench to grab a drink and a towel - the latter of which he would use in an attempt to wipe off some of the mud and sweat that seemed to have enveloped his entire body.

………………………………........................

"Sandy!"

Sandy spun around, greeted by a grinning Carson Ward.

Extending a hand, he returned the smile. "Hey, Carson, how's it going?"

"Well," he replied, shrugging sadly, "Luke's pretty upset, so…"

"Yeah, Ryan mentioned he was hurt." Concern flooded Sandy's voice as he inquired about Luke. "Is he going to be all right?"

"Well, they think it's just a sprain, but I'm on my way to pull the car around to the other side of the field, load him up and take him to the hospital so they can rule out a break."

"Aw, that's too bad. Poor kid."

"Yeah." Carson nodded. "He's not in the best of moods. He loves the game."

"Absolutely. What's not to love?" Sandy joked as he lifted his right foot out of a puddle of mud. "I guess you're gonna take him home, then?"

"No, actually," Carson answered, shaking his head in surprise, "he just told me that he wanted to stay. You know, support his teammates."

Sandy, for some reason, found himself relieved that Luke wasn't leaving Ryan with the team he barely knew. "That's what I call an unbeatable team spirit!"

"Okay," Ryan's voice caused both men to turn. "Oh, hey, Mr. Ward," he added immediately.

"Hey, Ryan. You played a good game."

"Thanks," Ryan replied quietly, diverting his eyes to the ground as he rubbed one of the team towels over his face before continuing. "I talked to Luke, he said it might not be broken…."

"Yeah, we're hopeful anyway." Carson smiled at the kid, sounding sincerely pleased that Ryan cared about the well-being of his son. Jingling his keys, Carson turned his attention back to Sandy,

"Okay, well I better get Luke to the hospital - but we shouldn't be gone too long… hopefully."

"Yeah, we're going to go grab something to eat," Sandy responded, offering his hand out to Carson one more time. "Nice seeing you, Carson. And tell Luke I have my fingers crossed for him."

"Absolutely." He waved as he backed away, lightly jogging toward the parking lot.

"Luke's pretty disappointed," Ryan stated absently, rubbing the towel over his damp face.

Sandy nodded "Yeah, I know. I suppose I would be too. Hopefully it's just a sprain and he'll be back in action in no time." He paused, pulling his glasses forward as he, again, looked Ryan up and down skeptically. "So, you don't have any other clothes?" he questioned with his eyebrows raised.

"Just back at the hotel," Ryan answered.

"I guess I'm just gonna have to deal then," Sandy teased, patting Ryan on the shoulder as they strolled toward the crowded parking lot where the shiny Beamer awaited them.

………………………………..............................

"I can grab an extra pillow from the closet if you want to prop your leg up," Ryan commented while removing his watch and placing it on the nightstand beside his bed.

"I'll just use this one here." Luke struggled as he reached for his spare pillow while trying not to move his aching leg too much.

"That's good news, though… I mean, that it's not broken. You must be relieved."

Luke's face didn't bear the expression of someone who had received good news. He shrugged casually. "Sure… I guess so."

Ryan sighed, letting his upper body fall flat back against the bed, too tired to search for another tactic to cheer up his depressed friend. He let his eyes close and just before drifting off, a voice pulled him back.

"How was it out there?"

Ryan pried his eyes open and tried to make sense of the question through his sleepy haze.

"Out where?" he mumbled.

"Well, you know… out on the field. Was Johnson a prick?"

Ryan processed the question for a few seconds. He didn't see any reason to convey Johnson's empty threats to Luke. The guy wasn't worth it. Besides, the game and a quarter that he'd actually played had been so quick and so intense that he didn't really have a lot of time to pay attention to Johnson and his idiotic comments.

The game against Phoenix had been just as fervent as the inter-California match-up. Though they had ultimately lost the match, it was a hard-fought, tight battle that had proved to be much more physically involving than any competition Ryan had ever been a part of. He knew coming in that the league was a sort of Western-America All-Star League, but he had had no idea the competition would be exponentially more zealous than in the Private School Athletic League.

He'd struggled to keep up with the well-tuned, athletically superior players of the opposition, the majority of whom were older - and much larger - than himself. That, combined with the fact that he was still on the backstretch of an ailment that had rendered him bedridden for a week, left him feeling significantly inadequate - not to mention extraordinarily exhausted. Needless to say, he had very little time or energy to devote to worrying about Johnson and company.

"I was trying so hard to keep up, I don't really remember." Ryan was mildly confused as to why Luke would ask such a random question anyway. "Well, I do remember him yelling at me to do something like hurry up, but that was probably deserved."

He turned his head toward Luke, who had been listening carefully and avoiding eye contact.

"Why?" Ryan added at the last second, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Luke shook his head, looking at Ryan for a split second before turning away. "No reason. Just curious."

Perplexed, Ryan closed his eyes, feeling slightly guilty about lying to Luke, not fully convinced that leaving out the details of Johnson's verbal attack was for the greater good.

Ryan knew he should have probably just told Luke that the guy was as much of an ass to him as he had been to his friend. At least then Luke wouldn't feel like he was the only one having to deal with that moron. However, Ryan was simply too spent to pursue the matter any further.

………………………………...........................

"Ryan…."

"Dude…."

Ryan turned away from the voice, but it continued to pester him relentlessly.

"Ryan, wake up, man."

The distinct sound of drapes being whipped open filled his ears and the brightness that followed caused a warm, orange glow to pervade his vision.

"Ryan!"

He cracked one eye open to see Luke hovering over him - a little too close for comfort.

Ryan immediately pulled both eyelids open and looked up with a glare that conveyed his sheer annoyance at being disturbed.

"What?!" he croaked, his voice raw and cracking midway through the irritated, monosyllabic response.

Luke smiled in surprise, holding his hands up defensively as he leaned back and out of Ryan's range of vision. "Don't get pissy with me! I've been trying to wake you for, like, twenty minutes!"

Ryan shook his head slightly, rubbing his eyes as he tried to sort through his thoughts, slightly disoriented after being roused from such a deep state of sleep. He lowered his hand, turned his head and blinked a couple times. As his awareness gradually heightened, he noticed that Luke was already dressed and propped up on his crutches - clearly ready to go.

"What time is it?" Ryan whispered, closing his eyes again and enjoying the sleep-like state for a couple seconds.

"It's nine-thirty, man. You've been asleep since like, nine-thirty last night."

"Ugh," was the only response Ryan could muster. His head hurt, his body ached and he certainly didn't feel like he'd slept through twelve straight hours. He prayed that he wasn't lapsing back into that horrid illness that had been so debilitating only a few days ago.

"You coming?"

"Mmmm," Ryan mumbled while nodding, stumbling from the bed and squinting out the sun that poured through the undraped window.

He grabbed his uniform from the top of the dresser and headed toward the bathroom, suddenly grateful that a Sandy had insisted on washing it for him in the hotel's laundry room after the last game.

Once he had clumsily managed to dress himself, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He sighed and deterred his eyes from his pale complexion before strolling back out into the main room - making a waving gesture with his arm toward Luke, implying, 'Let's go'.

Ryan stood back and held the door open, letting Luke exit first and watching as his friend swiftly maneuvered his way into the hall on his crutches.

"So," Luke stated, turning his head around as Ryan pulled the door shut behind him, "Cohen called last night. I tried to wake you but… well… you know."

Ryan looked surprised. He couldn't recall hearing the phone ring. "Sounds like I was great company," he poked fun at himself, smiling a little while shifting his eyes around the hall as they wandered toward the elevator, before settling his gaze back on Luke.

"What did Seth want?"

"I don't know…." Luke looked confused as he tried to make sense of the conversation from the night before. "He was babbling on about meeting Summer's dad… and seafood and cars… I think. I don't know. It's Cohen." Luke shook his head as he pressed the

button to retrieve the elevator.

Ryan's face broke into a grin. That sounded like a typical Seth-conversation.

"The guy just makes no sense sometimes. He did want me to tell you something, though…" Luke paused, looking up with his mouth slightly ajar as he tried to recall Seth's exact words. "He said something like, 'Stick to the R.A.G.P'… no." He stopped and shook his head, obviously more sure of himself the second time around. "Stick to the G.P.R.A. You'd think I'd remember, he only made me repeat it like twenty times."

Luke stared at Ryan as if trying to determine whether or no the message made any sense.

Ryan laughed lightly while rolling his eyes.

"So that makes sense to you?" Luke questioned, surprised.

"Believe it or not, yes."

"Cohen's done weird things to you, man."

Ryan nodded. He wasn't going to argue with that.

"So, how's the ankle?" he questioned, suddenly swamped with guilt at not having asked earlier.

The elevator doors opened and both boys entered - Ryan pressed the button for the lobby.

"It's a little sore. Nothing I can't handle," Luke answered, grimacing slightly as he addressed the issue of his tender limb.

Ryan was impressed. For some reason, he'd tagged Luke as a whiner and he was pleasantly surprised to find that the guy was a lot tougher than he had given him credit for.

"Sandy seemed pretty excited yesterday," Luke commented eagerly with a change of subject.

"Yeah, I noticed," Ryan responded, smiling shyly. His smile reflexively grew as he recalled Sandy cheering loudly from the sidelines. Fortunately, the other parents and observers were nearly equally enthusiastic, and therefore, Ryan wasn't singled out by the attention.

Carson had gone home after returning with Luke from the hospital, and Sandy had taken it upon himself to take both tired boys out to dinner. The conversation was lacking as Luke struggled with the pain vibrating up his leg and Ryan tried to keep his eyes open, but Sandy didn't seem disappointed. In fact, he was so thrilled by the whole 'sporting experience', that he had informed Ryan would try to leave early from a meeting at the Lighthouse the next day, so that he could come back and watch the actual tournament. But not without adding, "If that's okay with you, of course.". Ryan didn't argue. He was a little overwhelmed by Sandy's excitement - and obvious pride - but not opposed to it, by any means.

"That's good though… right?"

Ryan nodded in agreement, but wondering if Luke was disappointed that his own father wasn't coming - even though he wasn't going to play. It made sense to Ryan. He didn't see why someone would bother making the journey if their own son wasn't even participating. Then again, Sandy had come the day before when he thought that Ryan wasn't even going to play - but he supposed that Sandy just wasn't aware of regular, sporting-event attendance procedures.

The doors parted and both boys made their way into the lobby to join their teammates.

Looks of disgust were exchanged and disparaging comments were whispered upon their entrance. Ryan caught Johnson's eye for a millisecond, in which his adversary effectively conveyed all of his hate and spite for the newcomer.

Ryan shrugged in exasperation as he broke the contact, letting out an exaggerated sigh. Even at such an early hour, it had already become clear that he was in for a very long day.

……………………………….........................

Ryan stared long and hard at the schedule board - as if memorizing every stroke made by the thick, black marker. Southern California was scheduled to start out against a team that had blown out the opposition in both of its exhibition games the day before, and that minimal knowledge incited a ball of nervousness in Ryan's stomach. He had thought the two teams they'd faced were tough enough, and the prospect of competing against a more talented squad was somewhat daunting.

The only good news was that Southern California wasn't scheduled to play until the second game on the first of three fields, which would allow him some extra time to prepare and, hopefully, wake-up.

"We've got some time to kill. You wanna grab a coffee or something?"

Ryan glanced sideways to see Luke lumbering up on his crutches, respectfully followed by little Johnny Prusek.

"The coach said that we should probably watch the first game, since we could end up playing them next. That is, if we win the first one," Ryan trailed off as he watched Luke shake his head.

"Naw! I'm sure he's just saying that so he can keep an eye on everyone. You know, so no one takes off."

Ryan tilted his head, unconvinced by Luke's conjecture.

"Seriously!" Luke tried to build on his case, smiling in the face of Ryan's skepticism. "C'mon, you look like you could use the caffeine."

"Thanks, pal," Ryan threw back at him, but he couldn't deny that his tired body was in dire need of stimulants. "Whatever…." He shook his head. "Coffee it is."

The three boys slowly made their way to the large refreshment tent that was set in the center of the three fields, providing a view of different games from every side. Ryan directed them to the furthest side that overlooked the first field - if he was going to have to watch a game, it might as well be the one that the coach had recommended he study.

"You guys can sit, I'll go get the coffee," Johnny offered quietly, and before either Luke or Ryan could thank him, he was halfway to the concession stand. Ryan noted that the speed of Johnny's walk was similar to his swiftness on the field.

Luke leaned his crutches against the table and carefully lowered himself into a chair while Ryan sat down directly across the table.

Immediately, their attention was drawn to a boisterous group not too far away, as Johnson's loud, cocky voice carried swiftly through the air. "He's such a prick! I'm gonna kick his punk-ass!"

……………..

Luke didn't have a clue what the moron was talking about - nor did he care - he just wasn't sure he could endure listening to the idiot talk for very long without getting wound up. 'There's just something about that guy,' he thought to himself, cringing as Johnson loudly proceeded tell another 'I kicked his ass' story.

Luke glanced across the table at Ryan, whose eyes were unfocused as he stared across the field to his left.

"You hearing this guy?" Luke's voice was hushed as he posed the rhetorical question.

"Trying not to," Ryan mumbled, not bothering to change his trance-like expression or face his friend as he spoke.

Luke's ears were suddenly graced with Johnson's arrogance once more. "Stupid fucks…."

"How do you think he'd look with a crutch up his ass?" Luke cracked, only half joking, but his crude comments managed to draw Ryan's eyes back into focus.

……………………..

Ryan turned, internally amused at Luke's idea, but aware that he would be better off discouraging any sort of physical altercation between the two - especially when he would also be directly involved.

"He's probably not even talking about us," Ryan tried to reason.

"You sure about that?"

Before Ryan could come up with something better to placate his friend, Johnny returned with three steaming cups of coffee.

"Thanks," Ryan smiled gratefully at his smaller teammate, relieved that the distraction allowed him the opportunity to change the subject.

Johnny dropped a handful of cream and sugar packets on the table, most of which Luke quickly snatched up, immediately adding their contents to his cup. When his friend dumped the third packet of sugar, Ryan raised a questioning eyebrow while sipping his black coffee.

"What?" Luke looked from Ryan to Johnny - the latter of the two appeared slightly startled by the question.

Ryan just shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Would you like some coffee with your sugar?"

"Shut-up, Chino." Despite the attempted seriousness, Luke couldn't hide the grin that spread across his face at Ryan's rare humorous statement.

"Uh oh! Trouble in paradise!"

The levity was instantly transformed into an atmosphere of thick tension. Ryan and Luke both stiffened at the goading commentary. Johnny shrank down in his chair, trying his hardest to disappear.

Ryan caught Luke's eyes for an instant - silently pleading with his friend not to pursue the matter any further.

"What? You two fags got nothing to say?"

Luke straightened in his chair, seeming taller. Apparently, he was willing to ignore the pain from his ankle if it meant he could do some damage to the asshole that never seemed to lay off.

"Luke, don't!" Ryan quietly demanded through clenched teeth when he saw the sudden, rage-induced movement.

"What are you? His mother? Or should I say, his daddy?" Muffled laughter bubbled from Johnson's entourage, as the last comment touched on the real reason behind his tormenting.

Ryan watched as Luke's expression went from sheer rage to complete despair.

The utterly insensitive, personal attack launched on his friend caused Ryan to instinctively bounce to his feet and stand face-to-face with Johnson. The abrupt movement flipped his over behind him.

"Why don't you just leave him alone?" Ryan spoke in a quiet but unwaveringly firm voice. He instantly internally regretted jumping headfirst into something he'd insisted to Luke wasn't worth his time.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up and stay out of this? This isn't about you." Johnson tauntingly poked his rival in the chest with his index finger. The condescending gesture sparked a fury of anger within Ryan.

"It is now." He stretched up, his chest rising and falling rapidly at Johnson's antagonizing comments and actions.

"Your little boyfriend's got a bit of a temper!" Johnson directed his comments toward Luke, whose own rage forced him to his feet.

"Grow up," Ryan threw back in disgust, pulling a little closer and clenching his fists as he fought the building urge to toss a few left hooks.

"Grow up?" Johnson questioned, a sadistic smile crossing his face as he looked down on Ryan. "You listen to me, little faggot, if you _ever _get up in my face again, I will pound you so hard your own mother won't recognize you? Got it?"

Ryan did his best to ignore the irony of Johnson's words. After a few drinks, there was a good chance his mother wouldn't recognize him anyway - with or without Dr. Johnson's alterations. He brushed off the threats, and despite being the obvious underdog - dwarfed by Johnson's massive presence - he continued to stand his ground.

"So, either get out of my face, or fight me right now." Johnson's voice was quieter and significantly more serious as he delivered the ultimatum with a hint of something that could be perceived as pleasure. He stepped closer as he challenged Ryan.

Ryan's eyes drifted to the side and then to the ground. He didn't want to fight, but he didn't want to give in or surrender. He remained silent for several seconds as he internally fought between his common sense and pride.

"That's what I thought," Johnson broke the silence. "You better stay as far away from me as possible. If you get in my face again…" he leaned in closer, "consider it war."

Johnson proceeded forward, slamming his shoulder into Ryan's as he walked past and sending the smaller of the two off-balance.

Ryan pushed himself up from the undignified heap in which he'd landed after Johnson's shove, avoiding the alarmed stares of Luke and Johnny. At the same time, he internally struggled to avoid following Johnson and accepting the invitation to brawl.

"You okay?"

Ryan cautiously glanced up to see Johnny's wide eyes staring back at him.

"Yeah," he whispered, pulling himself to his feet and grabbing what remained of his coffee off the table. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

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	4. Chapter Four

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A/N - Thanks to everyone for your wonderful reviews. I can't say how much your support means to me. And on the note of support, I want to thank S.L.K.B., my wonderful support team. You guys have all been incredible.

Now, there are a couple reviews I want to address:

****

Nysha, you'd be surprised how much your review ties into this new chapter. I laughed out loud when I read your comments. Sorry it didn't turn out the same way.

****

Anitgone, the issues you mentioned will be touched on soon. You should get some answers to your questions in the next chapter.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4

In war, there is no prize for the runner-up -- General Omar Bradley

Ryan sighed heavily as he pulled his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror on the bathroom wall. Exhaustion relentlessly nagged at his brain and he seriously doubted his ability to be effective in the upcoming games that were sure to be the most strenuous competitions he'd ever been a part of. The mere thought made his entire body ache and his chest contract. He couldn't think of anything he would like to do more than sleep.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck and wiggled his fingers in a feeble attempt to knead the aching tightness out of his muscles. He was beginning to wish he'd listened to Kirsten when she'd insisted he stay home for the weekend and regain his strength. Strength - the concept felt foreign to him.

The bathroom door flew open with a whoosh, interrupting Ryan's piteous thoughts and causing his breath to catch audibly in his throat. Johnson ambled into the room, headed for the far wall before he caught sight of Ryan and halted in his tracks.

Hate washed over Johnson's face. He shook his head and took a step toward Ryan, heaving his already tall frame a couple more inches in preparation for another physical showdown with his teammate..

Ryan lowered his eyes, willing to concede to the bully if it meant he could escape imminent confrontation and avoid having to endure a fight he didn't have the energy to sustain. He would need what he had on the field.

"I told you to stay out of my face," Johnson snarled, clenching his fists tightly at his sides while closing in on Ryan.

"Look, man, I don't want to fight you," Ryan responded tiredly, trying his hardest to appear completely uninterested in pursuing a rivalry that, in his opinion, had already gone too far. "I'm leaving." He moved toward the door, but a hand was pressed hard into his chest prevented him from reaching his goal.

Ryan reflexively swatted at the unwelcome contact, grabbing Johnson by the wrist and physically removing his hand. Ryan's breathing became increasingly erratic as Johnson moved to the left to block Ryan's path to the door.

"I don't want to fight you," Ryan repeated, his face flushing with anger that overpowered reason.

Johnson leaned in, causing Ryan to take a step back, pressing his lower back flush against the sink.

"You have no _respect_," Johnson spat in a low, grumbling voice. "You and your _boyfriend_, Ward, are both disrespectful, little punks."

Ryan squinted in sheer confusion. Johnson's childish accusations were giving him a headache. "What's your problem, man? I just want to get out of here…."

Johnson pulled closer, and Ryan felt extremely vulnerable at being pinned.

"_That_ is _exactly_ what I'm talking about." Johnson's statement was followed by a quick, powerful shove to the chest that caught Ryan off-guard.

Johnson's sudden assault caused Ryan to stumble backward, forcing his feet to slide out from underneath him. He gasped as his right side connected harshly with the corner of the sink, his body then proceeding to fall hard onto the floor.

"You better watch your back, Atwood. I'm not done with you." Johnson stormed out of abandoning his original mission. The door swung appreciably as a result of the Bully's rushed exit.

Ryan waited for the door to settle back into place before rolling onto his side. He grabbed at his bruised ribs with his left hand and several lethargic seconds passed before he was able to regain his breath. He moaned in pain as he pulled himself to his feet by way of the sink and waited for the burning pain to recede to a dull throb. When it did, he attempted to straighten. Cringing, he slowly rolled his shoulder forward to stretch out the affected area.

The bathroom door swung open, and Ryan, anticipating the worst, spun apprehensively. Much to his relief, Luke strolled in, a concerned expression crossing his face as his eyes settled on his distressed friend.

"You okay, man? You've been in here for, like… ever."

Ryan grimaced while nodding. "Yeah."

Luke appeared unconvinced and significantly confused. "Really? You look… well, you look like shit," he stated honestly with an apologetic smile.

Ryan forced himself to return the smile that contradicted every one of his current physical and emotional feelings, while meeting Luke's eyes, "Thanks again, buddy."

Luke's smile faded. "You sure you're okay?"

"Fine," Ryan stated assuredly, walking toward the bathroom door, followed closely by his concerned companion. He didn't see the point of telling Luke about his latest adventure with Johnson. Instead, he tried to block out the entire encounter, along with the sharp pain that radiated through his ribs with every new step. The day just kept getting better.

Luke picked at the rim of his Styrofoam cup, rolling the piece of white foam into a tiny ball before letting it sift through his fingers and float to the ground beneath the grandstands. He repeated the monotonous behavior several times before finally crushing the remains of the cup between his hands.

He was bored. Plain and simple.

The initial frustration of being an idle observer for the weekend had eventually dissipated into a dim cloak of depression. He would be the first to admit that any further emotional reaction to his situation would be uncalled for, especially when compared to all that he'd managed to survive. So, he decided to simply ride the wave and be a silent supporter for Ryan, whom he considered to be a sort of representative of 'their side'.

He sighed in defeat when he thought about just how small their side was. Two, maybe three, counting Johnny, who seemed content on his own. Regardless, the Luke and Ryan combined barely equaled one when their handicaps were tallied. Even prior to their first 'competitive' game, they'd had a rough start to what was sure to be a long season.

He turned his head to his right, watching Johnny, who appeared to be intently studying the game being played on the field in front of him. His eyes darted back and forth as he followed the ball. He remained completely oblivious to Luke's sudden attention.

Luke tilted his head to his left. Ryan had barely said two words since he'd left the bathroom, and he wondered if his friend was sick again and not letting on. For almost an entire quarter of a game, Ryan had remained hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands as he stared aimlessly at his shoes.

Luke opened his mouth, intending to say something completely meaningless to break the bleak silence. He couldn't think of anything to say - no encouraging words or feigned optimism - that could possibly aid in making his friend feel any better.

Guilt over being the one who'd insisted Ryan attend the tournament picked at his conscience, increasing with every dispute that his friend had become embroiled in on his behalf.

While Luke endured the constant mockery during the previous week's practices, he'd told himself that it would be different once Ryan joined the team. Somehow, Luke had convinced himself that once he had back-up, the problem would cease to exist. Instead, the situation had taken a drastic turn for the worst, and now his back-up, _his_ _friend_, carried the burden and suffered the consequences of Luke's problems.

He'd decided not to warn Ryan about Johnson's asshole tendencies because he'd been so sure things would be different and that Johnson would eventually get bored and lay off by the time they reached the tournament. Besides, Ryan had been so sick and out of it when Luke stopped by the Cohens' after the last practice, that Luke hadn't seen any reason unnecessarily weigh Ryan down with petty problems.

Johnson's constant berating had been easier to deal with when he'd played for Pacific - Harbor's cross-county rivals. Luke only had to endure the jerk's insults for a single game and then it was over and done with. Now that they were on the same team, there was no escape, and it appeared that Johnson had no intention of backing off.

So, Luke sat on the bleachers overlooking the first field, sandwiched between the only two teammates that weren't too proud to be associated with him, and stared at his miserable friend who had, once again, come to his defense.

Ryan must have sensed Luke's eyes on him, because he slowly turned his head to cynically eye his observer.

Luke tried a smile, to which Ryan didn't respond. Instead, he turned away and resumed staring blankly at his feet.

"You sure you're alright?" Luke asked quietly, trying not to be overheard by anyone - including Johnny.

Ryan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his head bobbing in a nod that could have easily gone unnoticed.

"Look, man, he's all talk. Seriously, I've never actually seen him hurt anyone. Besides, if he tries anything, he'll have to answer to me. And even with one leg… hell, even with one hand, I know I could take him."

Ryan opened his eyes and turned back toward Luke, squinting in obvious confusion. "What? I don't care about him." Ryan's voice trailed to a whisper.

"Okay." Luke shrugged, pulling back a little. He'd just assumed that Ryan's silence this afternoon was related to his showdown with Johnson. "You just look a little…."

"What?" Ryan voice was kept quiet but was clearly agitated by Luke's prying.

"You just look… tired. And mad." Luke added the last part with a bit of a smile that caused Ryan to shake his head.

"I'm fine." Ryan stated louder, the irritated tone dissipating to exhaustion as Luke continued to interrogate.

Defeated, Luke shrugged, "You don't _have_ to play."

Ryan turned, squinting again, puzzled by Luke's latest statement. "Uh, last time I checked, you weren't exactly ready to go."

"McGregor's played in the middle before and I know that O'Donnell can take his spot on the right side," Johnny spoke up.

Luke and Ryan turned their heads, both startled by Johnny's unexpected input.

"What? I can hear you." He shrugged with a small smile.

"It's fine. I'll play." Ryan's voice took on a pleading tone, begging Luke to drop the matter altogether. "I didn't come here for nothing."

He stole a quick glance at his watch and grabbed Luke's crutches from the seat below. "We gotta go," he said quietly, changing the subject abruptly. "We've got to get ready," he casually motioned to Johnny, while handing the crutches to Luke.

Johnny nodded, bouncing up and leading the way down the steps toward the field.

Luke shrugged, laboriously making his way down the uneven steps of the bleachers under the watchful eye of his only friend, who followed closely behind.

Sandy strolled aimlessly across the wide strip of lawn that separated the parking lot from the playing fields, constantly scanning the landscape in front of him for any sign of Ryan or Luke. He figured if he could find one, the other was sure to be close by.

Before yesterday, he'd been unaware of how close Ryan and Luke had become over the past few months. He'd noticed that they'd worked through the hate for each other that arose from Ryan's arrival to Newport, but he had no idea that they'd become such good friends. He supposed that because Ryan and Seth's shared interests were limited, it was good for Ryan to have someone who shared his interest in sports.

Sandy had managed to cut out of a meeting at the Lighthouse early and driven entirely too fast down the coast, hoping he hadn't missed the beginning of the first game.

He'd enjoyed himself the day before. Even at dinner, where both Luke and Ryan has been clearly exhausted and all but mute, he'd enjoyed every second. He'd told Kirsten and Seth all about the games and recounted the excitement for them the minute he got home.

Seth had responded by telling Sandy to take a deep breath while Kirsten had looked genuinely concerned when she'd found out Ryan had been forced to play. Sandy was too energized and proud to let their less than enthusiastic reception bring him down. 'Maybe I'm just happy to escape Newport,' he thought to himself.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the fresh scent of the morning and stopped to decide which field to scout out first. Just off to his left, he spotted Luke, hopping on one leg from the bright red bleachers, tailed closely by Ryan, which came as no surprise.

Sandy approached the two boys, who were joined by another kid that he recognized but couldn't name if his life depended on it.

"Hey!" Sandy called out cheerfully.

Ryan nodded and gave a small half-smile in return.

"Hey, Mr. Cohen," Luke greeted, seemingly in better spirits than he'd been the night before.

"Luke, how's the ankle?"

"Oh, not too bad, thanks," he smiled, blushing slightly.

"Sandy, this is Johnny Prusek," Ryan introduced his teammate.

The boy shook Sandy's hand with a firm grasp that contradicted his slight frame.

"Nice to meet you, Johnny."

Johnny nodded respectfully.

"Well," Ryan broke in, "we were just heading to the field for our first game."

"I'll walk you there."

Ryan shrugged as he and Sandy followed Luke and Johnny, who were already several steps ahead in spite of Luke's current handicap.

"You get some sleep last night?"

Ryan's eyes remained focused on the grass as they walked. He nodded and whispered something that sounded like a cross between a sigh and 'yeah'.

Sandy eyed him closely, noticing he looked drained and moved stiffly. His observation was interrupted by Ryan's quiet voice.

"Do you have any Tylenol or Advil… or something?"

"What's wrong?" Sandy's voice was flooded with concern, not allowing Ryan the chance to answer before he bombarded him with questions and advice. "Did you hurt yourself yesterday? Are you feeling sick again? I don't think you should play if you're not feeling well, Ryan. I should have sided with Kirsten…."

"Whoa, Sandy." Ryan held his hands up defensively, appearing amused by the parental outburst. "I'm fine… just stiff. You know… first game I've played in a while."

"Really? That's it?" Sandy pried deeper, skeptical of Ryan's apparent justification for requesting the pain relievers. "Because Kirsten will have my head if I bring you home sick again."

Ryan laughed lightly, "Yeah, I know."

"All right then, as long as you know." Sandy smiled in spite of his concern. "I think I've got something in the car. Which field are you playing on?"

Ryan pointed directly ahead.

"Okay." Sandy patted Ryan on the back before turning toward the parking lot. "I'll be right back."

"This is it. It's crunch time." The coach paced back and forth in front of the team as he gave his version of the traditional pep talk. The players listened as they all engaged in various states of preparation. Some stretched, some triple-knotted their shoelaces; one of the younger kids nervously pulled at blades of grass. "We all have to work together… help each other." His voice rose, emphasizing the phrases. No one responded.

"Okay!" He clapped, trying to inspire enthusiasm in his young, unenthused players. "Let's get warmed up."

The majority of the players rose with minimal exuberance. The coach's eyes settled on Atwood, who was painstakingly gathering his feet underneath him, his face reflecting a considerable level of discomfort. Recognizing the kid's quiet struggle, he subtly meandered over - careful not to draw attention from the others.

"Atwood."

Atwood had finished pulling himself upright and his eyes jolted around, mimicking a knee-jerk reaction.

"Yeah?" he whispered, occasionally dropping his eyes from the coach's, as he brushed his hands together.

"Are you okay?"

Atwood turned and glanced back and all around. Finally, he set his jaw and made eye contact followed by a a slight nod.

"Ryan!"

The coach turned toward the anxious voice and watched as a winded man briskly jogged toward them.

"Here," he panted, holding out his closed fist.

The kid quietly thanked the visitor and accepted the offering, which he immediately popped into his mouth and swallowed dry.

"Hi, there, Sandy Cohen." The man offered his hand.

"Frank Stewart." The coach smiled, a rare occurrence, and shook hands with the visitor.

"Nice to meet you." Sandy turned his attention back to Ryan. "Okay, I'm gonna see if I can snag a good seat. Good luck out there!"

The coach watched with amusement as Sandy jogged toward the bleachers. He wished some of the man's enthusiasm would rub off on the team.

The coach shook his head and turned back toward Ryan, who was double-knotting his laces in preparation for the warm-up, or to keep himself busy - the coach wasn't sure which.

"Anyway," the coach started, continuing to shake his head as he tried to restore his train of thought, "I don't want you out there if you're not one hundred percent. Tell me _right now _if you're not gonna be able to last out there."

Ryan didn't appear startled by the coach's blunt statement, an observation that bothered the coach, who'd always counted on 'shock value' with these kids. Atwood was different.

The kid's tired eyes calmly met the coach's.

"I'll last," he stated simply, convincingly confident for a teenager.

"Alright then." The coach sighed and nodded sharply. "Get out there."

If there was one thing he'd learned about Atwood in the short time that he'd known him, it was that the kid had pride. For reasons he couldn't quite identify, he was under the assumption that he was the kind of kid that would play on his deathbed because it was built into his character. The entire concept was strangely comforting. Finally, someone on his team seemed to care.

Three outs. Three people had given him the option of sitting it out. Three different people had tried to reason with him in their own way. One person's mindless threats had forced him to take the field.

It was ridiculous, and Ryan knew it. He also knew that admitting defeat so early in what was sure to be a _very_ long summer season, would be like tattooing a giant bulls-eye on his back. If he could prove that he wasn't going to give in to Johnson's constant berating and that it had no effect on him, he stood a chance of being left alone. He might actually be considered part of the team. Johnson would be encouraged to continue the bullying if he thought that his words and actions had contributed to or caused Ryan to ride the bench.

Ryan was tired. His chest, ribs and head hurt; and he was pretty sure that his brain was beginning to hurt. He would rough it out because he wasn't about to give Johnson the satisfaction of thinking he'd won. That wasn't the 'Ryan Atwood' way. He owed it to himself, and to Luke, who'd already sealed his own fate the day before. Ryan getting through the tournament would be their ticket to acceptance.

"Three lines! Three lines! C'mon, guys. Move!" The coach yelled from the sidelines.

Ryan rolled his shoulders trying to loosen some of the tension that had a death grip on his body as he aimlessly kicked a stray ball from foot to foot. The familiar shrill sound of the coach's whistle pierced the air.

"Let's go!" The coach frantically waved his arms toward the net, encouraging his players to intensify the warm-up.

Ryan ditched the ball and followed the troops, making a conscious effort to conserve energy in spite of the coach's prodding. He joined the middle line, unfocused and oblivious to the insults being exchanged among some of his older, more amicable teammates.

All too soon, Ryan found himself at the front of the line. Much to his displeasure, Johnson appeared to his right, in his peripheral vision. 'Great,' he thought.

Before he could analyze the match-up, the whistle blew, releasing the three players onto the ball. Ryan had often relied on his speed on the field, but it had never seemed so crucial. Johnson wasn't as fast as Prusek, but he wasn't slow by any means. Despite Ryan's best efforts, he found himself only a couple of strides in the lead as he closed in on the stationary ball.

He swiftly kicked the ball to the outside, away from Johnson, then chased it down, preparing to take a shot from an almost impossible angle. He lifted his head as he was about to drill the ball, and spotted Johnson barreling down on him, closing the gap between them with incredible speed.

Ryan considered turning away and letting his mammoth teammate think he'd won the inconsequential competition, but thought better of forfeiting at the last second. The millisecond of hesitation gave Johnson the edge he needed, and he bowled over Ryan, laying a weak shot on net.

Anticipating the contact, Ryan managed to minimize the impact by turning away. Johnson clipped his teammate's left side and sent him spinning to the ground, his smaller body no match for Johnson's two-hundred-pound-plus mass.

Sharp whistles and frantic yelling followed. Ryan tried to block everything out, fighting his body's objections and trying to appear completely unaffected as he jumped to his feet. He jogged back to the pack on the other side of the field, tracking down the ball on the way and kicking it toward Johnson, who had no trouble stopping it with one foot, glaring spitefully at Ryan.

"Atwood, go get yourself patched up."

Confused, Ryan sought out the coach with his eyes, but the gruff man had already moved on, scribbling down notes on his clipboard as he headed up the sideline.

"Your elbow, man," Johnny whispered, preparing for his own turn in the drill, a race from which he would undoubtedly emerge victorious.

Ryan followed Johnny's gaze to his left arm, and was suddenly aware of the warm, sticky fluid trickling down his forearm toward his hand. Stinging pain that he'd been completely oblivious to, accompanied the realization.

Ryan jogged lightly toward the medical tent, hopeful they could do some miracle patchwork to stop the bleeding and enable him to start the game. At this point, there was no chance in hell he'd let Johnson win so easily.

"Have a seat," the medic ordered, catching sight of Ryan's bloody arm and retrieving gauze patches from his kit.

Ryan complied, trying not to flinch as the medic's cold, gloved hands stemmed the bleeding.

"Ryan! What the hell was that?"

Ryan turned to see Sandy walking sternly into the tent, his face flushed with anger.

"It's nothing. Really, I'm fine," Ryan said, once again, trying to shrug off Sandy's concerns.

"You could probably use a stitch, but I can tape it for now if you want to keep playing."

"Yeah, that's great. Thanks." Ryan avoided Sandy's eyes.

"He was trying to get you, Ryan. What the hell's that kid's problem?"

"Look, Sandy, we don't get along. It's no big deal. I can deal with it."

"Your own teammate caused you to split your elbow open. _On purpose_. I'm sorry but --"

"He didn't mean to hurt me. Really, it's fine. It was an accident. And this…." He motioned towards his newly bandaged elbow, rising to his feet, "looks a lot worse than it is."

Sandy grabbed Ryan's good arm before he could leave the tent, an action that caused Ryan to instinctively spin, his muscles tightening in response to the firm contact.

Sandy leaned in closer, glancing around to make sure nobody could overhear their conversation. "That was _no_ accident, Ryan. He wanted to hurt you. I saw it… Luke saw it. Even your coach saw it. Didn't you hear him yelling at the kid?"

Ryan shook his head. In all his fury, he hadn't been aware of exactly what the coach was yelling after Johnson's tactless body check.

"He wasn't even headed for the ball. He was going straight for you. He's dangerous, Ryan."

"Sandy," Ryan pleaded with a small smile that showed how much he interpreted Sandy's concern as an overreaction, "…he's just competitive. I'll be fine."

"I'm not kidding. I don't want you out there. I don't want you to play."

"It's not that easy, Sandy." Ryan laughed in spite of the wave of worry that tightened his chest. The fears that he had tried to disregard and minimize, had been brought to the forefront of his mind when Sandy voiced his concern.

Sandy appeared to feed off of Ryan's apparent consideration, leaning in closer, his voice laced with desperation. "You listen to me. If that kid's trying to hurt you, I don't want you out there. It's not worth it, Ryan."

"Why, Sandy?" Ryan spat, frustrated and tired of having to justify his decisions. "Don't you get it? Either I get it over with now, or I deal with the same shit again next time and then the time after that. I just want to get it over with."

"I don't want you fighting him. You know damn well that that could be your one way ticket back to juvie."

"I'm not gonna fight him, Sandy."

"Then you're gonna get hurt."

"It's just a game. And he's my teammate…." Ryan's words trailed off as he pulled his arm from Sandy's loosened grip.

"Why are you doing this? You weren't even supposed to play this weekend. It doesn't make sense, Ryan."

"I've dealt with people like him before. As soon as he realizes I'm not going away, things will settle down." Ryan shook his head sadly. "This is just the way it has to be." He took a few hesitant steps backwards, away from Sandy, before turning and striding purposefully back toward the field.

"Be careful."

Ryan heard the defeated words coming from behind him. He nodded with a sigh. That was all he could do.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

_It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it. - General Douglas MacArthur_

Ryan fiddled with a loosecorner of the bandage on his elbow. Nervous energy ran through his body like electricity. Even though he had no desire to take part in the game itself, he was anxious to get going. His motivation had little to do with enthusiasm and everything to do with determination.

He had to do this. He was determined to do this. He was determined to weather the storm; and the sooner the storm got started, the sooner it would be over with and then he could let some other kid take over his position.

One game. He just had to endure one game.

He glanced over his shoulder and watched Johnson step up, in Luke's place, with the player from the other team, both players waiting for the coin toss while the referee replaced his broken whistle on the sidelines.

"Well if it isn't Terry Johnson"

Ryan focused on the two players when he heard the taunt in the opposing team's captain's voice. Ryan kept his distance, but his curiosity got the better of him. He tilted his head to the side so he could hear more accurately over the wind.

"How's your fag of a brother" Phoenix's captain smiled maliciously.

Johnson's face twisted with rage as he took a step toward his antagonist. Ryan recognized the physical change in Johnson's demeanor as he prepared for the imminent fight.

"Where the fuck did you hear that, Rickard" Johnson's response wasn't loud, but carried well downwind and Ryan didn't have to strain his ears to hear.

"Jamie Johnson, right? Goes to UCLA with my brother. My bro said the fag kept hitting on him." Rickard let out an exaggerated laugh. "Hope it doesn't run in the family… I guess I'm going to have to watch my ass all game"

"Keep your fuckin' mouth shut, Rickard" Johnson's voice rose, bitter and spiteful.

Ryan glanced around to see if anyone else had overheard the conversation that was bound to get out of hand. A few of his teammates were talking in a circle off to his right, but they were apparently oblivious to Johnson and Rickard's confrontation.

"What are you gonna do about it? Huh"

If Johnson responded, it was swallowed by the wind.

Rickard smiled sarcastically and looked around before facing Johnson once more. "That's what I thought. You better keep your faggot-ass away from me or I swear to God"

The threat halted abruptly when the referee approached for the coin toss.

Johnson glanced over his shoulder; too fast for Ryan to turn away. In that millisecond of eye contact, Ryan could see that Johnson knew the conversation had been overheard by at least one person.

"Shit" Ryan mumbled under his breath, fixing his eyes on the burnt grass of the field.

He didn't even want to think about what that knowledge would do to his standing in Johnson's books. The guy already had an unreasonably large grudge against Ryan; the last thing he needed was to give Johnson another reason to fixate on him. By being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ryan had managed to draw more unwanted attention to himself. The weekend kept getting better….

Ryan turned, shaking his head in disbelief as his brain swam with the new information he wished he hadn't learned. After all of the shit that Johnson had put Luke through for having a gay father, Johnson had a gay brother. It suddenly made more sense to Ryan. Johnson was overcompensating because he was scared or embarrassed.

Ryan guessed that Johnson's brother's sexual orientation wasn't common knowledge, or Johnson would've been blackballed like Luke, or at least more sensitive to the matter. Ryan wondered if Luke would have turned out the same way had his secret not been revealed. He shuddered at the thought. He had to give Luke credit. People sure could change….

The linesman to Ryan's left blew forcefully into his whistle, signifying the start of the game. Ryan cringed and tried to avoid the sharp sound by turning his head to the right.

"Sorry, kid." The middle-aged man smiled.

Ryan nodded and held up a hand in forgiveness. He turned and jogged to center field. The deafening whistle intensified the headache that had been threatening to break out all morning. He slowed to a walk and reached up to run a hand through his hair in an effort to lessen the tension gripping his skull.

_Just one game._

Johnson was already in position when Ryan walked by. "If you say anything…" Johnson threatened.

Ryan squinted and shook his head. "What" He didn't want to hold his newfound knowledge against Johnson. He definitely didn't want to discuss it. He just wanted to play the game and get the nightmare of a weekend over with.

"Don't fuck with me, Atwood." Unlike Johnson's previous threats, all of which were delivered in a tone of arrogance and cockiness, the words were desperate. Fearful.

The approach scared Ryan. A fearful Johnson would be a dangerous one.

Ryan took as deep a breath as his lungs would allow and continued walking to his position, feeling Johnson's eyes on his back the entire time.

"This is going to be fun" Johnny remarked quietly with mock-enthusiasm. Ryan's brow furrowed in confusion as he skeptically eyed his friend.

"You know" Johnny continued"this team, Phoenix, was Western champion last year. It's stacked with college prospects. They killed us last year. Johnson and Rickard all but had it out on the field."

"That's just great" Ryan mumbled facetiously, swallowing his nervousness and diverting his eyes to the ground.

"They're tough" Johnny stated seriously. "I mean, in the finals last year, they knocked off four or five players from the other team before half time. I'm just glad we only had to play them in the exhibition round; you know, when it didn't matter." He shook his head in awe. "They were vicious…."

Ryan turned away from Johnny and scanned the field for players dressed in Phoenix's red jerseys.

Big. Bigger. Giant.

Ryan often felt small, but he couldn't ever remember feeling…overwhelmed. As he gauged the size of the members of Southern California's opponent, an unfamiliar anxiousness settled in his stomach. He couldn't compete with these guys, especially when he didn't have his legs. He was outmatched.

"You'll be fine, man. Just use your speed and stay out of the way." Johnny's voice sounded overly confident. Ryan had his doubts.

"Right." Ryan nodded and forced a smile, ashamed that he'd allowed Johnny to see through him so easily. "Just stay out of the way."

Johnny smiled and took a few steps back toward his position.

On any other day, Ryan wouldn't have given the game a second thought. Today, he had no confidence in his body's abilities and that really bothered him. He _knew_ that he wouldn't be able to keep up.

He was doomed from the get-go.

………………………………...

Near the end of the first quarter, Ryan felt like he'd lapped the field 50 times. He'd forced himself to run as fast as his legs would carry him because he figured if he could beat his mark - the player from Phoenix he'd been assigned to guard - to the ball every time, he could pass it off right away and avoid any physical contact. For the most part, his plan had worked. He'd only been knocked on his ass once when he was caught in a goal-mouth scramble that left several players sprawled on the grass in its wake.

Ryan groaned when the ball flew toward him again. He forced his legs to cooperate as he chased it down. He managed to reach the ball first, and was glancing around the field for a teammate to pass to, when an extended whistle interrupted play.

He couldn't be bothered finding out what caused the play to stop. Instead, he bowed his head and leaned over, letting the ball roll to a stop several feet in front of him. He coughed as his chest, which was tighter than it should have been, fought for oxygen. His lungs burned intensely, and with every passing play, it was getting increasingly difficult to catch his breath. His bruised ribs only added to the difficulty. He listened intently as every breath caught in his throat.

He shouldn't be here. He knew he was in over his head.

"You! Out"

Ryan lifted his head long enough to see the ref waving a red card in one hand, while the other pointed at a player wearing the blue and silver colors of Southern California,

McCauley.

McCauley blatantly ignored the referee's order and pursued his opponent, pushing one of Phoenix's players backward. The other player pushed back with enough force to knock McCauley backward several steps. McCauley used that distance to launch at his challenger and the two engaged in a forceful wrestling match before any officials could intervene.

Ryan watched as several players from each team migrated toward the action, some pairing off with their own rivals. Ryan instinctively inched closer, despite wanting nothing to do with the entire ordeal. If he'd wanted to play a physical game, he would have chosen to play football instead.

The collage of red and blue was peppered with a couple of black and white linesmen's shirts. The ref stood off to the side, his whistle emitting short, sharp warnings that were lost amongst the yelling.

"Hey! Hey! I'll kick you all out" Exasperated, the ref stomped toward the shoving match.

Ryan felt a pat on his back and watched Johnny run by, toward the flurry of activity. Ryan would never have thought Johnny was the type to get involved in something like this, but his mark was in there, and there was an unwritten rule that you're always responsible for handling your own mark… even if it's not directly related to the game.

Ryan scanned the crowd for his assigned man on Phoenix's team, who was usually easy to spot with his unruly mop of vibrant red hair. Ryan's eyes finally settled on the distinctive hair on the fringes of the riot. He seemed to be waiting for an opening that would allow him to jump in.

"Shit" Ryan mumbled, summoning his energy and jogging tentatively toward the skirmish.

Ryan approached from the side, hoping that his presence would be perceived as passive. The last thing he needed was to be pulled into another shoving match.

The two caught eyes, and Ryan let out a sigh of relief when his counterpart with the curly red hair, gave him a half-smile. "Well this is a fuckin' mess" the kid joked quietly.

Upon hearing his voice, Ryan realized the kid was a lot younger than he had pegged him for. Ryan had assumed that by the kid's size and the way he held his own on the field, that he was much older.

"Get your God-damned hands off me, you prick" McCauley had his man by the jersey, and a frazzled linesman was doing his best to separate the two giants.

Ryan was suddenly bumped from behind, forcing his body forward into the red-haired kid. The kid steadied Ryan before submissively pushing him away, more for show than anything else. In a game like this, you didn't want to be seen helping the opposition in any way.

Ryan steadied himself and shuffled to the right to avoid being bumped again by Johnson, who, for once, didn't appear to have intentionally run into Ryan.

Rickard and Johnson were exchanging forceful shoves and exaggerated obscenities. Ryan noted that Johnson's face was a dark shade of red, but couldn't determine if the flushness was the result of anger, exertion or embarrassment.

"C'mon, Johnson" Rickard pressed him, smiling as he tried to get a rise out of his opponent. "If you're so fuckin' tough, let's go then. Huh" Rickard shoved Johnson again. "Or are you all about rainbows and shit like that"

Johnson set his jaw and calmly stepped forward and nodded, all but verbally accepting the invitation to brawl.

The red-haired kid stepped back and out of Ryan's peripheral vision. Ryan glanced over his shoulder, where he noticed that the riot appeared to have grown. The linesmen were in the middle of it all, and the referee stood off to the side, holding one of Southern California's players in place with one hand while half-heartedly waving the red card around in the other.

"Shut the fuck up, Rickard. I swear I'll hurt you…." Johnson's eyes narrowed as he eyed Rickard.

For once, Ryan noted that Johnson's threats sounded solid; he was going to follow through. It's not that Ryan ever doubted that Johnson would hurt him given half the chance, but this time around, there was emotion in his voice. He was serious. He was going to hurt Rickard…or at least give it a valiant effort.

"Let's just play the game" Ryan's voice was low. However, the snapping heads that turned in his direction made it clear that he'd been overheard.

"Who's this, Johnson? Is your little boyfriend trying to save your ass" Rickard laughed as he gestured toward Ryan with a tilt of his head.

Ryan rolled his eyes, unable to figure out why he was everyone's love interest this weekend.

"Shut the fuck up, Atwood" Johnson spat.

"C'mon, Terry, he's just trying to stop me from kicking your ass."

The crimson shade of Johnson's face deepened. He opened his mouth, but two firm hands of one of the linesmen, grabbed his arms from behind.

"Break it up, guys. C'mon, move it out." Another linesmen joined moments later, taking

Rickard by the shoulder and pulling him back a few steps.

"You" Rickard stated firmly while being dragged backward"and you" he added, nodding at Ryan"watch your backs because I won't let up. If you're in my fuckin' way, I _won't_ let up."

"All right, all right. Just shut your mouth already" the irritated linesman scolded Rickard.

Ryan stood immobile for several seconds, watching as Rickard was dragged to his team's half of the field. Once Rickard was out of reach, Johnson was released by the second linesman, who was mumbling something about not getting paid enough to put up with this kind of crap.

Johnson spun furiously, stopping abruptly before colliding with Ryan. Johnson didn't speak, or glare, or give Ryan an extra shove. Instead, he took a step to his left and walked around his smaller teammate.

Ryan dropped his eyes to the grass under his feet and swallowed the lump in his throat. He wished Johnson had pushed him, or called him a fag or a punk or a loser or… anything. Instead, he'd seen his teammate's raw emotion. Fear. Johnson was scared. Ryan just hoped he wouldn't be the ultimate outlet.

The officials were spiritedly discussing the penalties to be doled out to both teams, giving Ryan an opportunity to steal a glance at the bleachers. Both Sandy and Luke were watching him. Even from a distance, Ryan could make out their solemn expressions which carried over from the prior scene. He forced himself to turn away from their stares and walked back to where the rest of his team awaited the officials' verdict.

Even with the delay and lack of activity associated with all the commotion, Ryan was still significantly out of breath. His chest was constricted, making it difficult to draw in enough breath to sufficiently feed his system with oxygen. The pounding behind his eyes intensified, and he wished he'd just swallowed his pride and stayed in bed all weekend.

"Hindsight…" he mumbled.

"What"

Ryan lifted his head. Johnny was standing a few feet off to the right, curiously arching his eyebrows.

"Nothing." Ryan shook his head, slightly embarrassed.

"You all right" Johnny asked.

Ryan closed his eyes. He was sick of the question. He hated lying. "How much time's left"

"Sorry" Johnny scoffed. "We're not even to the half yet."

"Right" Ryan whispered as he pulled his eyes open and nodded, unable to hide his discouragement.

"Well, the good news is it looks like Johnson's too busy fighting another battle to worry about you. It's not surprising that the moron's got more than a few enemies, right" Johnny asked.

"Yeah, well… now I'm… dodging Johnson… _and _his enemies."

"What? How'd you get involved in that"

"God." Bewildered, Ryan shook his head. "I have no idea."

Johnny couldn't hide his smile. "You just can't catch a break, can you"

Ryan gave Johnny a sideways glare, which was disregarded when Johnny changed the subject. "The whole thing started when McCauley spat on their goalie."

"Really"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah. What can I say? The guy's an idiot."

There was no arguing with that. Unfortunately, though, spitting on another player was a red card offense, which meant that at least McCauley would be ejected from the game. As the bench thinned, the chances weren't good that someone would be available to fill Ryan's position for the remaining games - assuming they won the match in progress.

The two teams gathered on their respective sides of the field. Several players lingered dangerously close to the center line, but no one made any move to pursue the battle further.

Both coaches had effectively chastised their teams. Phoenix's coach ranted and raved, demanding his players focus and grow up. Ryan couldn't help but notice that, in contrast, his own coach appeared somewhat proud of his troops. Sure, he went through the obligatory spiel, but there was a hint of delight in his voice. He seemed happy with his team for finally putting forth a spirited effort, and hesitant to completely douse the fire with a lecture.

Ryan lingered in the background during the lackluster scolding, keeping one eye on the coach and the other on Johnson, whose gaze, in return, was set on Ryan.

Ryan preferred Johnson's hateful comments when they had no basis. Now they were defensive - his threats had purpose. He didn't want his secret revealed. Johnson now had a solid foundation for his grudge without Ryan physically doing anything to support it.

He just wished there was a way to convince Johnson that he didn't care enough to reveal his secret. He didn't. In fact, he wished he'd never overheard the conversation in the first place. Ryan knew that bringing the matter up in any way, shape, or form, would only dig himself further into a hole. It was a lose-lose situation that only perpetuated his frustration.

_I won't let up._

Rickard's words echoed in Ryan's head. On any other day, under any other circumstances, he would have shrugged it off, but for many reasons, the words continued to play on a loop in his mind. Rickard was big, probably the biggest guy on the field. It was all Ryan needed to not only have to dodge Johnson, but also worry about avoiding the Mack truck in the form of Rickard. Ryan's head pounded harder as he thought about the new obstacle in the already complicated situation.

The referee pulled out of the huddle and marched toward the benches. After much deliberation among the three officials, it was clear that they'd reached a verdict.

"Twelve, blue. Seven, blue. Fourteen, red. Twenty-three, red" the ref called out to the players as he booked the red-card offences.

From Southern California, Guilder and McCauley reluctantly made their way to the bench, the latter swearing audibly under his breath as he strode past the referee.

The coach stared disapprovingly at the two ejected players before turning his attention back to what remained of his team. He clapped his hands together several times, shouting out tips and words of wisdom as his team filed by.

"Prusek, stay up close on thirteen; he's quick but you'll catch him" the coach advised.

"Johnson, you steer clear of trouble, you hear" He paused.

"Atwood." Ryan froze in mid-step and jerked his head to the right, catching the coach's eyes and waiting

"Stick to the left when they clear. We're counting on you for speed."

Ryan stared blankly ahead for several seconds. The coach's eyes widened as he silently waited for a reply. Over the coach's shoulder, Ryan saw Sandy and Luke standing in the bleachers.

Sandy had his arms folded across his chest and Luke was draped heavily across his crutches. Neither looked overly impressed. Ryan didn't have the energy to deal with Sandy's disappointed glare, so he dropped his eyes once more, nervously fiddling with the bandage on his elbow.

"Atwood"

"Right… yeah; stick to the left. Got it." Ryan's voice was muted by the wind, but the coach seemed satisfied by the attempted response.

"All right, then. Get out there"

Ryan jogged back toward the middle of the field. The penalties canceled out any on-field advantage for either squad, but as much as Ryan hated to admit it, losing McCauley was going to hurt his team. If McCauley brought anything to the game, it was his size. Since they were playing against a team of overgrown teenagers, he was a fundamental addition to Southern California's strategy.

Ryan settled in position and found himself lined up against Rickard. Despite Ryan's best efforts to avoid eye contact, Rickard insisted on communicating.

"I wasn't kidding, fag."

Ryan let out a shaky sigh and kept his eyes on the ref, who had the ball tucked under one arm.

"If you wanna side with that loser, I'm serious. I won't let up."

Ryan tilted his head in acknowledgment and his hair fell over his eyes, shielding them from Rickard's glare.

The players scattered once the ball was launched back into play.

Ryan focused on sticking to the left. He figured there was very little about that he could screw up.

………………………………...

Light rain fell intermittently, showering the field and the players every so often. No one complained because the short showers were a nice way to cool down in the stifling heat and humidity.

Ryan wiped at his face with his forearm, not bothering to brush back the hair plastered to his forehead and occasionally dripping water into his eyes. It would just fall back the next time he ran.

Unfortunately, he'd found that as big as his opponents were, they were equally as fast. The pace increased as the game progressed and the chances to score were high. Despite the rapid tempo of the high-paced game, closing in on the final ten minutes, the teams were deadlocked at two goals apiece.

Johnny kick the ball high into the air, split the defense and tracked it down again on the other side of the defensive wall of players.

Ryan's heart jumped as three players in red headed straight for his smaller teammate. Johnny looked up just in time to sidestep them and still managing to maintain control of the ball and close in on the net. The goalie dove out and made an easy save, but Johnny's effort drew bursts of applause from the spectators.

The stalled play allowed Ryan to stop, struggling again for breath. As the game wore on, it became more difficult for him to keep up. Several times in the past few minutes, dizziness and nausea had forced Ryan to slow down and pull away from the action.

The red-headed kid, who'd introduced himself as Sean, was Ryan's only saving grace. Despite his size, the kid wasn't as aggressive as the majority of his teammates. Several times in the last quarter, he'd even asked Ryan if he was all right, taking the risk of being overheard by his more insensitive teammates.

"Get the fuck away from me, you homo."

Without even looking up, Ryan knew that Johnson and Rickard were going at it once again. Though the two of them had only exchanged words and harmless shoves up to this point, the officials were forced to intervene several times to prevent further escalation.

The ref's warnings were repeatedly disregarded and Ryan silently voted for the older man to put his foot down and kick them both out of the game. That would be a load off everyone's shoulders.

However, they'd been allowed to continue. Ryan wasn't overly worried. They deserved each other and as long as they were berating each other, they weren't thinking about going after him.

Ryan coughed, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. He could deal with the pain. He was good with pain. The panic he'd been feeling when he couldn't get enough air was what really bothered him. He'd felt like he was drowning and only then did he back off.

_Ten more minutes. _

Just ten more minutes and he'd have put in a full game, proving to Johnson that he wasn't going away and taking a stand for Luke, who couldn't physically do it for himself. Ryan would win, even if the team lost.

Johnson and Rickard fought for position when play continued, and though the ball was on the opposite side of the field, neither gave an inch.

Johnny passed the ball up the middle and ran around the crowd to get in front of the net. Ryan begged his legs to cooperate as he tried to run full speed ahead and cover his position. Sean gave a valiant effort, but couldn't catch Ryan before he reached the ball.

Ryan saw an opening and bolted through before anyone could touch him. In the background he could hear his teammates yelling for a pass, but he couldn't actually see anyone open to pass off to, so he continued to run.

His legs felt disconnected, and the sounds around him were muffled. Full-force panic set in. Breathing was no longer a minor struggle, he was completely deprived of oxygen

No longer in control, Ryan stopped and his upper body pitched forward, forcing him to lift his arms to break his fall. Much to his surprise, he was able to remain on his feet, staggering a few steps to his left, toward the benches. The sound of his heart beating in his ears reminded him of nightmares involving being held underwater.

Ryan was bumped lightly from behind, which pushed him further forward and closer to losing his balance completely.

"Dude! What the hell're you doin'" The voice was annoyed.

Ryan turned and caught a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. It was one of his teammates, but he couldn't put a face to the voice. It didn't matter. All that mattered was getting off the field - breathing.

He heard himself take a shuddering breath, like someone who'd been laughing or crying too hard for far too long. He continued moving forward, not bothering to check if the coast was clear.

He stumbled forward but stopped as the play moved directly in front of him. A few feet in front of Ryan, Rickard and Johnson jockeyed for position.

"Don't touch me, faggot" Rickard spat at Johnson, who responded by pushing his foe from behind.

Rickard turned to face Johnson, but the ref stepped between them and both players accepted the intervention and continued in pursuit of the ball.

"He just call you a faggot" McGregor breathlessly asked Johnson, as they each fought off their marks and tried to push deeper into the center of the tightly packed scrum.

"Shut up, McGregor" Johnson yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Oh, you've got to be fuckin' kidding me" McGregor laughed incredulously.

Johnson left his mark and turned to face his teammate, his anger evidently boiling over. "I said _shut_ _the fuck up"_

Ryan stepped up closer, eager to get to the sidelines, but realizing that he'd have to weave his way through several game-focused players to do so. So he waited. He didn't have to energy to dodge them.

"I should have known you were a fag, too…." McGregor's voice traveled well in the wind, but Ryan couldn't be bothered listening for Johnson's response.

"You had to know people would find out, you fuckin' fag" Rickard sounded like he was enjoying himself, rubbing it in Johnson's face.

Johnson, for once, looked close to tears. He had hit breaking point by receiving a healthy dose of his own medicine. Suddenly, Ryan didn't feel so bad about having to leave the game. Things were finally falling into order.

The ball was booted into the far corner of the field. Players from both teams raced after it. Ryan waited for the crowd to thin. The red-haired boy was in the lead, free of all guarding and unimpeded.

Ryan saw his opening and started walking toward the opposite side of the field. Rickard was calling out insults from Ryan's left, and Johnson was doing his best to ignore the words off to the right.

Ryan wished they would both just follow the rest of the players and play the game. The ball started to make its way back up field and Ryan realized he had to hurry across to beat the crowd. He prayed for cooperation from his body.

"I'm talking to you" Rickard yelled menacingly.

There was no response from Johnson, who had his back turned and appeared to be heading back into the fray.

"Oh, that's it" Rickard growled.

The player in red started running, gaining incredible speed with every stride. Even at a quick glance, Ryan knew the guy was going to kill whatever was in his way.

He turned to the right; Johnson was directly in the line of fire, oblivious to the force barreling down on him.

Ryan shot his eyes over to the ref, who was occupied with separating McGregor from one of Phoenix's players.

Again, Ryan snapped his head to the left. Rickard was getting closer; Johnson didn't appear to have a clue.

Ryan had to say something. He wasn't even sure if he could, but he had to at least sound a warning. Like it or not, Johnson was his teammate.

"Johnson" Ryan managed to yell. Johnson's head snapped around as he spitefully made eye contact with Ryan. "Watch it"

Johnson's brow furrowed, and his eyes suddenly widened. Before Ryan could turn around, an extraordinary force knocked him off his feet.

The noise was too loud.

It was dark, too dark. Something wasn't right.

Ryan couldn't wrap his brain around the sudden change in conditions. The air was hot and thick, not at all breathable. He could hear muffled screaming off in the distance. What felt like sharp knives stabbed at his stomach, chest and legs. But the weight - the extraordinary mass pressing down in him - was what scared him the most.

He was compressed, flattened under an enormous load that just kept increasing. The noises were louder, more urgent. The pain was more intense. The darkness got blacker. But the weight…the weight was unforgiving.

……………………

"What's he doing" Sandy asked aloud, the question directed at no one in particular.

"I don't know…." Luke shook his head and squinted against the wind, leaning forward to the edge of the metal seat of the bleachers in an attempt to get a better view.

One second Ryan was running full-force with the rest of the players, the next he has doubled over and staggering across the field. He'd since stopped, and was standing motionless in the middle of the field. It looked like a couple of players from either team were speaking to him, but from where Luke was sitting, there wasn't a chance in hell he could hear what was discussed between them.

The ball was kicked back toward centerfield, and Ryan took a few steps back, then forward, but still made no obvious effort to rejoin the play.

"Something's wrong…" Sandy mumbled, keeping his eyes set on the field as he stood and started making his way through the crowd and down the steps of the bleachers.

Luke fumbled with his crutches and muttered his apologies as he awkwardly maneuvered through the bodies and followed Sandy.

Luke approached Sandy from behind, his feet were just behind the thick white line of paint that marked the edge of the field.

If it weren't for the large '27' stitched Ryan's back, Luke would have never recognized his friend. He wasn't the tallest guy in the world, but Luke had never seen Ryan look so small. He stood in place while the others ran circles around him. He'd take a few steps forward, look around, then stop. He was fighting a battle that Luke couldn't even begin to understand and he felt his stomach twist as he observed the scene.

Sandy was right, something was very wrong.

Out of nowhere, Ryan called out to Johnson. Luke shook his head to make sure he hadn't imagined it. It made no sense; Ryan had been avoiding Johnson at all costs the entire weekend.

In his confusion, Luke hadn't noticed the player in red, running at mach speed in the direction of Johnson - and Ryan.

"Watch it" Ryan forced the words out breathlessly.

As Ryan spoke, the player in red changed his direction a couple of degrees. Luke craned his neck to see around the players whipping by in front of him, chasing after the ball.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Sandy stiffen, and felt his own body go through the same subconscious reaction. The player in red was aimed at Ryan. And he wasn't letting up.

It all happened so fast, too quickly for Luke to say anything. He couldn't warn his friend, who, ironically, was trying to warn his enemy. Instead, Luke braced himself as if he were about to receive a hit of equal magnitude.

Luke swore he heard the collision before he saw it. The sound was so sickening that it caused a shiver to run from one end of his body to the other.

He blinked and held his breath. Others piled on. First Johnson, then three or four giants from the other team. Within seconds, that, in Luke's mind, lasted for a torturous eternity, the heap was piled six or seven high.

Several players were yelling, arguing, fighting with each other, but Luke didn't look at them, he stayed focused on the pile of bodies in the middle of the field.

Despite all the noise, he heard the short, panicked breathing pattern emitted from the man beside him. Sandy stood frozen, shocked. He was right, something was wrong.

Three men in black and white jerseys started peeling players off the top of the pile. As the layers of red and blue were removed, Luke saw it.

Underneath all the mayhem, from the bottom of the pile, a single hand was sticking out, grasping at and ripping out blades of grass in a gesture that could only be conceived as the act of someone in complete and utter agony. Luke took a step forward and swallowed when his fearful guess was confirmed.

"Oh my God" Sandy whispered slowly. Luke swallowed again.

Whistles continued to blow. Bodies continued to fly. It was full out war and no one could win. Ryan had already lost.


	6. Chapter Six

****

War

****

Chapter Six

But in modern war, you will die like a dog for no good reason. -- Ernest Hemingway

--

"What's his name?"

"Ryan."

"Don't fight it, Ryan."

"Can you grab his wrist?"

"We're going to get you out of here."

------------------

Ryan felt himself shuddering. He was smothered. The overpowering weight pressed deeply into every little crevice of his body. He felt flat and if his mind could properly process the situation beyond the pain coursing through his every cell, he would be overwhelmed by panic. As it stood, to panic would be redundant. He was passed that stage. He had clicked into conservation mode. There wasn't room for panic. There was barely enough room for himself.

His entire body was searing, the heat that had instantly enveloped his skin, quickly invaded his lungs, suffocating him further. Through the darkness, a glimmer of light could be determined, illuminating a tiny patch of air where he could feel no weight. That small opening allowed for enough oxygen circulation. Just enough.

__

How could I let this happen?

------------------

__

"Where's that coming from?"

"I can't tell. I need scissors. I don't want to move him."

"Go pull the bus around, I'll prep him. Sir? Sir, are you his father?"

"Yes."

"Can you put a hand on his wrist? Just don't let him pull the mask off."

"I gotchya, kid. It's going to be okay…."

------------------

Sandy wanted to run out onto the field, scream and yell at everyone to stop, to pay attention. But he couldn't think. His body wouldn't cooperate. It was as if his feet were glued to the ground, the white line under his toes representing a border he couldn't cross.

The officials were yelling, blowing into their whistles in short, sharp bursts. It hurt his ears. But he couldn't move. He could only stare at the arm he knew belonged to the kid he was responsible for, the kid he was supposed to protect.

"How could I let this happen?" Sandy struggled to form the words as panic forced all the air out of his lungs.

------------------

__

"Decreased breath sounds on the left…. You're going to be fine, Ryan."

"One, two, three, up."

"Hey, c'mon! Take it elsewhere. Let us through."

"You coming with us?"

"Absolutely."

"We're good to go."

------------------

"Get off! Move!" Johnny grabbed a Phoenix player from behind by the jersey, channeling all his strength to move the much larger individual from the top of the pile. Johnny wasn't going to fade into the background. Not this time. Not when his teammate, _his friend_, was under there, struggling, suffering.

"Move!" Johnny screamed to no one in particular, his heart pounding harder as he pulled at the arms and shirts of the players involved in the pileup, receiving little reaction for his tremendous effort.

"What the fuck, man?"

"Get off!" He was breathless. Tired. Why wouldn't they listen?

"Step back, let us deal with this." The ref's words were sandwiched by two, ear-piercing whistles.

Johnny reluctantly took a step back. His eyes maintaining a constant stare on the arm he knew belonged to Ryan. The white-knuckled hand that had effectively torn out every blade of grass within reach and was now clutching nothing.

Johnny turned, his head to the side, pained by the scene in front of him, only to catch sight of the coach approaching, his eyes wide, his expression stunned.

Feeling useless and helpless, Johnny turned to face the approaching man while spitefully yelling, "How could you let this happen?"

----------------

__

"This should make you feel better, Ryan. Just try to relax."

"He's been sick…."

"Just lean back for a second, sir."

"Is he on any drugs?"

"Uh…antibiotics, I think…. I have to call my wife."

"Okay. Ryan?"

--------------

"C'mon, guys, someone's hurt here!" The ref's words appeared to have some sort of impact on the players that were, up to that point, wrestling with each other near the bottom of the pile.

"Ah, shit, man. Are you okay?" One of the Phoenix players asked before an authoritative hand pushed him back a few steps, away from Ryan's squirming, gasping form.

The ref instructed the linesmen to clear the crowd and pocketed his whistle, kneeling down on one knee and quietly saying something to which Ryan appeared to have no answer save for a painful groan and cough.

"Can we get a medic over here?"

Luke glanced over his shoulder toward the medical tent. Two paramedics were already halfway across the expanse of grass that separated them from the scene. When Luke turned back around to face the chaotic action, he noticed Sandy had left his side and was jogging toward the flurry of activity.

Without a second thought, Luke burst forward, stumbling awkwardly on the torn up grass as his crutches hit patches of mud, occasionally slipping out from underneath him.

"Ryan? Jesus, Ryan, talk to me!" Sandy released the panicked words in a tone that Luke had never heard come from the usually composed man.

When there was no response to his demand, Sandy spun on his heel, his eyes scanning his surroundings as if searching for someone or something. "That was assault! You know that!"

"Sir, please, calm down," the ref pleaded with the stricken father as Luke approached from behind, significantly winded after his marathon.

Sandy ran a hand over his face, glancing back down at Ryan, as if just looking at his anguished son was enough to kill him right then and there.

"Excuse us." Luke felt a hand on his shoulder as the medics passed him, immediately kneeling down on either side of his injured friend.

He watched in shock as one medic wasted no time placing a mask over Ryan's mouth while the other fitted a collar around his neck.

"What's his name?" the female medic asked. Luke was surprised to find that her eyes were on him, searching for an answer to her question.

"Ryan," he answered quietly, more breathless from fear than his sprint.

"Don't fight it, Ryan," the woman advised calmly, gently swatting away Ryan's right hand as he lethargically tried to push away the plastic covering his nose and mouth. "Can you hold his wrist?" she addressed her partner, searching through her medical bag with one hand while holding the mask on Ryan's face with the other.

"We're going to get you out of here," the man said soothingly as he grabbed Ryan's wrist and slowly pushed it to the ground. Ryan was too weak to fight it, which allowed the medic restraining him to reach behind and pull the backboard around to his side.

"Ryan? Can you walk?"

The only response was a pained cough, that forced Ryan onto his side, his wrist jerking from the male medic's grasp, his hand clutching his shoulder.

Out of the corner of his eye, Luke could see Sandy shifting from one foot to the other, his impatience blatant.

__

How could I let this happen?

------------------

"Where's that coming from?" the man asked, staring at the dark red liquid that stained the top of his partner's hand. Sandy felt his stomach turning over.

"I don't know," she started in a rush, wiping the blood off with a towel that was immediately tossed to the side, soiled. "I need scissors. I don't want to move him."

The man looked up briefly, making fleeting eye contact with Sandy before turning his attention back to his medical bag, where he emerged with a pair of surgical scissors.

"Go pull the bus around, I'll prep him." the man demanded bluntly as he expertly started cutting through the fabric of Ryan's jersey.

The woman complied, jumping to her feel and jogging across the field.

The man finished slicing the front of the shirt in two, pulling either side back and searching Ryan's chest for the source of the blood. He whispered something under his breath when he caught sight of the ugly bruise on the kid's chest and shoulder, eyes finally settling on the re-opened gash on Ryan's elbow. The man retrieved several squares of gauze, pressing against the flow of blood while holding the edges of the mask firmly over Ryan's mouth. His chest was jumping simultaneously with the soft gasps and coughs emitted.

Sandy turned away, unable to watch out of fear. Fear of what he would see on Ryan's face. Pain.

"Sir?"

Sandy slowly turned toward the voice, dazed and distraught. "Sir, are you his father?"

Sandy nodded and swallowed, cautiously stepping closer. "Yes."

"Can you put a hand on his wrist?" Sandy stepped forward immediately, relieved to have a job, a purpose. "Just don't let him pull the mask off."

His instincts took over as he kneeled down beside Ryan, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, wrapping his fingers around the kid's wrist.

Sandy forced himself not to look at the damage, focusing only on Ryan's face, slick with sweat, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I gotchya, kid. It's gonna be okay…."

-----------------

"Decreased breath sounds on the left…."

Luke watched in horror as the female medic pressed her stethoscope into various areas on Ryan's badly bruised chest. He flinched under her touch, but didn't open his eyes or verbally express his pain. The male counterpart just nodded as if the information his partner had provided him with had been previously assumed.

"You're going to be okay, Ryan," she assured her patient while replacing the stethoscope around her neck.

Sandy rose to his feet, taking a step back as he observed the medics roll Ryan onto his bruise-free side so they could slide the backboard under his body.

Luke leaned forward on his crutches, clearing his throat and speaking for the first time since the incident first occurred. "He's going to be okay, Mr. Cohen."

"God, Luke…."

"Ward. Is he all right?" The sound of the wary voice caused a shiver of anger to run up Luke's spine.

"You fucking prick!" Luke growled before turning to face Johnson.

Johnson took a step back and set his gaze on the ground. For the first time, Luke was sure that Johnson was scared.

Luke responded by stepping forward, tossing his crutches to the ground and pushing Johnson backward with a forceful shove.

"You happy now? Huh?" Luke screamed, his voice cracking with unbridled rage. He felt a hand on his shoulder as Sandy tried to calm him, but shrugged it off by limping forward. Johnson was going to pay. He would make sure of it.

"One, two, three, up."

"Ward…look, I just wanted to --"

"Fuck you!" Luke spat, his raw emotions forcing Johnson back a few more steps until his back came into contact with the parked ambulance that awaited loading. Luke met his foe's eyes and suddenly wished he hadn't been so quick to discard the crutches. He knew Johnson was the one behind this mess. He was going to make sure he paid his dues.

"Hey, c'mon! Take it elsewhere. Let us through."

Sandy grabbed Luke by the shoulder, pulling him back a few feet away from Johnson with one hand while shoving the abandoned crutches into his hands with the other.

Luke felt his face flush with guilt when he saw the paramedics waiting for him to move so that they could load Ryan into the ambulance.

Stepping aside, Luke and Johnson cleared the doors and watched as the gurney was firmly strapped down onto the ambulance floor.

"You coming with us?" The female medic directed the question to Sandy.

"Absolutely." he replied, accepting her helping hand and climbing in beside her.

"We're good to go." she called out toward the front of the bus, slamming the doors shut as the engine of the big ambulance revved.

-----------------

"This should make you feel better, Ryan. Just try to relax."

The woman filled a syringe with a clear substance. Once again, Sandy brushed the wet hair off Ryan's forehead, and silently wished there was more he could do to ease the kid's pain. Anything. He would do it.

His hand settled on Ryan's forehead. "He's been sick…" he mumbled, not sure whether or not the medics should be advised of Ryan's less than adequate condition.

She met his eyes as she pulled the needle out of the bottle.

"Just lean back for a second, sir," she said kindly, reaching in between Sandy and Ryan to place the bottle back in the bag at the foot of the gurney. "Is he on any drugs?" She held the syringe up at eye level, flicking it several times with her fingers until all the air had been effectively removed.

"Uh…antibiotics, I think…. I have to call my wife," Sandy muttered. He cursed himself for not knowing. Kirsten had been the one to take him to the doctor. Kirsten had been the one to fill his prescription.

Kirsten should be here.

"Okay," the woman forced a reassuring smile, then leaned down closer to her patient. "Ryan?"

Ryan's eyelids separated for a split second before he squeezed them shut again, groaning beneath the mask on his face.

Sandy pulled his hand away from the kid's forehead, fearing he'd done more harm than good.

The woman medic didn't appear at all unsettled by Ryan's distressed response. "Have you ever had morphine before, Ryan?"

Again, the kid's eyelids opened a crack, glazing right over Sandy and searching the interior of the ambulance until settling on the woman. He gave a subtle nod before his eyes disappeared once more.

Sandy bowed his head and rubbed his hands together, trying hard not to think about what situation in Ryan's past would have called for the use of a painkiller such as morphine. There was too much about this kid he didn't know. Whether or not he was on antibiotics was just the tip of the iceberg.

"Better?" The woman's voice almost surprised Sandy. He glanced up to see her smiling at Ryan, who appeared to have finally found a state of reasonable relief, his breathing having regulated and the muscles in his face and jaw significantly more relaxed.

Sandy let out a shuddered sigh. He could breathe once again, but the oxygen couldn't ease the worry induced ached in his chest. Nothing could ever prepare a parent for this. He'd never felt such an overwhelming urge to hug his wife and son.

__

Kirsten, I need you here now.

-------------

The young nurse tied the hospital robe shut behind Ryan's neck after gently removing the stained and mangled jersey, placing it into a plastic bag on the bedside table. She pulled the hems of the short sleeves down over his shoulders, finishing with a smile. Sandy mumbled his thanks, obviously preoccupied by the doctor's examination.

The older doctor poked and prodded Ryan with a considerate expression. He'd obviously been through this before and that made Ryan somewhat more comfortable. After advising Ryan when and how to breathe as he placed his stethoscope in several different regions of his patient's chest, he grabbed the phone off the wall and made arrangements with a different department in the hospital, using words that Ryan recognized but couldn't really comprehend.

"Okay. We're going to send you off to get a few x-rays," the doctor informed once he'd hung up the phone, his eyes darting from Ryan to Sandy as he spoke. He made a brief note on his clipboard before handing it off to one of the nurses and smiling piteously at Ryan. "I'll be here when you get back."

Ryan blinked in acknowledgement, not wanting to nod through the stiffness in his neck. The morphine administered in the ambulance had taken care of the majority of the discomfort, but he could tell where pain would be felt without the drugs. The pressure in his arm, neck and shoulder was uncomfortable, but what bothered him most was the restricted room in his chest. Something wasn't working like it should and even through the foggy haze of the drugs, it scared him.

"You can wait here, sir. We don't allow anyone to accompany patients into radiology."

Ryan noticed Sandy's hesitation. Eventually, he nodded with a sigh, running a hand through his hair and taking a few steps back to allow the gurney to leave the room.

"I'll be right here, Ryan."

Ryan let his eyes drift shut rather than reciprocating the communication. Sandy would be disappointed, he was sure of it. If Ryan had just listened when he'd told him not to play, none of this would have happened.

__

He knew this was going to happen. He's got to be pissed.

----------------

"I'll go get your father from the waiting room and we'll go over these x-rays together, okay?"

"No." Ryan barely recognized his own voice, hoarse and uneven from lack of recent use and muffled beneath the barrier of the plastic mask. The doctor appeared somewhat startled by the response.

Ryan didn't want to face Sandy. He didn't want to face Sandy or Luke or Johnson or Rickard or anyone right now. He just wanted to get out of the cold, sterile hospital, and crawl into his bed back in Newport.

"He's just around the corner. It'll take two seconds. I'll go and grab him." the doctor assured, his voice soft, as if he thought Ryan simply didn't want to be left alone.

"Please," Ryan begged, wincing as his chest objected to his efforts. "Just tell me now," he finished in a whisper that was shaken by a shiver.

"Are you cold?"

Ryan was cold, sore and his head pounded through the drugs, but he didn't respond, afraid that if he said yes, the man would hesitate to sign his discharge.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, looking through the small window in the door then back at Ryan. Finally, he shrugged and let out a sigh. "I suppose you're old enough, but parents usually like to know what's going on, too."

Ryan could feel the doctor's eyes on him, but didn't bother to look up or acknowledge the statement.

The doctor grabbing several black and white films from the envelope on the table, slapping them onto a bright white screen in an even row. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and stood off to the side so as not to obstruct Ryan's view.

"Well," the doctor started, pointing his pen to the first film, "the good news is your arm's not broken. Just a nasty bone bruise. This, however," he touched the tip of his pen to a specific area on the next film, "doesn't look as promising…." The doctor went on to explain the various injuries, adding a load of auxiliary information that Ryan didn't even bother processing. Broken collarbone, bruised arm, bruised neck, collapsed lung, concussion, he knew what he needed to know. His summer was ruined.

"I'll go tell your dad that we're going to be a while getting you all patched up. He should probably go get a vehicle so that you don't have to ride a cab back to the soccer fields."

Ryan titled his head forward in an improvised nod.

"I'll be back in a second." The doctor strode out of the room and Ryan closed his eyes in relief. He didn't want to have to face Sandy. Not yet.

---------------

The doctor stuffed several flyers containing instructions and a prescription note into Ryan's good hand, the other immobilized, slung snuggly to his aching chest. The instructions were clear, the precautions blatant. There was very little he could do. There was very little he wanted to do. He was tired, drained and sore; the drugs from earlier were slowly wearing off. He needed to go home.

"Can I go get your father now?" The doctor arched his eyebrows as he asked the question, making it clear he didn't want to cross any lines that would make Ryan more uncomfortable than he already was

Ryan took several seconds to consider how he wanted to answer the doctor's question, eventually deciding that he didn't feel like listening to the man go through the entire spiel again. "It's all right. I can tell him," he answered tiredly, attempting to shift away from the discomfort in his chest but flinching when a sharp pain radiated through his ribs.

The doctor held up his hands in defeat, his expression suddenly turning serious as he took a few steps toward his patient. "Any increased difficulty breathing, you go straight to the hospital," the doctor demanded with a point of a finger. "I'll call your doctor in Newport and let him know the situation. I wrote my number on the prescription note, if your parents have any questions, tell them they can call me." He paused, rubbing his hands together. "Now, at least let me get you a wheel chair to get you out to your car."

Ryan gingerly shuffled to the end of the bed, slipping his feet back into his muddied cleats. "It's all right," he whispered, lifting his gaze to lock eyes with the doctor for a second as he pleaded his case. "There's nothing wrong with my legs."

The doctor smiled and shook his head despite his disapproval.

Ryan lifted his good arm slowly, testing his pain threshold as he reached behind his neck with outstretched fingers that searched for a loose string to unfasten the hospital gown. His struggle was cut short when the doctor approached, expertly removing the gown and draping Ryan's damp, severed jersey over his shoulders.

"Back in the armor," the doctor teased, offering a supportive hand as Ryan carefully slipped off the side of the gurney.

He took a few seconds to steady himself and test his lungs with several shallow breaths before shuffling toward the door. "Thanks." The word was hushed, nearly lost in the effort to breath, but the doctor seemed to have understood the gesture.

"Take it slow for a while, kid."

Ryan couldn't imagine any other option.

---------------

Sandy paced restlessly between two rows of plastic chairs. He'd been surprised when the doctor had told him Ryan would be able to go home as long as he took it easy, allowed himself time to recover, and promised to go straight to the hospital if any one of his many injuries worsened.

Sandy was relieved he'd held off placing that emergency phone call to Kirsten until after the talking to the doctor. He'd finally made the call while driving his car back to the hospital and couldn't remember exactly what he'd ended up saying, fighting his emotions the entire time. He was sure he'd have to explain everything again when he got home.

He was angry, at himself, at the actions that took place on that soccer field, and even though he hated to admit it, he was a little mad at Ryan for putting himself in such a position. He would have to fight to put all of those feelings aside for the time being. He just wanted to take the kid home.

But Ryan hadn't wanted him there. The doctor had made up some implausible excuse, but it was plain and clear to Sandy that Ryan would rather be alone than in his company. He didn't protect his son. He'd done what Ryan had expected. He'd failed him. He knew that all too well. That was how things had always gone for the kid, the people he was supposed to trust would eventually let him down. Sandy had never planned on upholding that theory.

So he paced across the shiny tiles that lined the aisle between the rows of chairs, reaching up every few seconds to push his hair from his eyes or catch a quick glance at his watch. After deciding that it was taking far too long and convincing himself that something else must have gone wrong, he approached the admitting desk to ask the nurse for another status report, but stopped short when he caught a flash of blue and silver out of the corner of his eye.

He turned to face the unrecognizable shell of what was usually a strong individual. Ryan tentatively stepped around the corner, his eyes downcast, his right arm in a sling. Sandy tried to tell himself that the prognosis was a lot better than he'd originally anticipated when Ryan was squirming in the grass, but that thought was quickly lost in sympathetic anguish as he watched the kid struggle through every calculated step.

As if propelled by the need to parent, Sandy jogged up beside Ryan, immediately taking the papers from the kid's good hand.

"What are you doing up?" Sandy immediately felt guilty for sounding so abrupt. Ryan needed his support, not his anxiety.

"Doctor said I could leave."

"I know," Sandy started, moving to Ryan's uninjured side and placing a supportive hand on the kid's shoulder as they slowly made their way toward the doors. "I just thought…you shouldn't be on your feet."

Sandy watched Ryan's face, trying to read the kid of few words. A quick lift and fall of his eyebrows said it all. He didn't want to talk about it. Sandy could understand that. His sons were so drastically different.

"Wait, Ryan," Sandy squeezed his fingers and Ryan recoiled from the touch, setting his jaw against the pain. Sandy immediately pulled back, afraid of the damage he'd caused. "Oh…I'm so sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Ryan squinted and turned away, his breathing audibly shallow and laborious. He managed to shake his head 'no' with very little movement.

"I wanted to talk to your doctor…." Sandy pointed behind him, still flustered.

Ryan licked his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. "It's all there," he finally whispered, tilting his chin toward Sandy's right hand.

Sandy lifted the papers and scanned the titles of the pamphlets.

__

Caring for a fractured clavicle

Caring for pneumothorax

__

Caring for a concussion

__

Medicating with Vicodin

Medicating with Amoxicillin

"I just think that --"

"Please, Sandy." Even though he couldn't see Ryan's eyes, his desperation was palpable. He wanted to go home. Sandy couldn't deny him that. He'd have Kirsten call their doctor when they got back to Newport so she could figure this whole mess out. Kirsten could always figure this stuff out.

"Okay, kid. Let's get you home," Sandy pulled back and scanned Ryan's tattered jersey and mud-covered cleats. "and into some decent clothes."

---------------

The numbers in the elevator lit up as it ascended. Four, five, six. Sandy realized he was counting out loud, and quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was alone.

He slipped through the gap sideways before the doors had a chance to open all the way. His eyes scanned the numbers on the hotel room doors as he proceeded down the hall. 2234, 2235, 2236. He stopped in front of 2237, only to notice the door was slightly ajar.

Knocking as he pushed the door open, Sandy could hear voices from inside the room.

"I don't know, man. It's so fucked up. Why was he trying to save Johnson?"

"It doesn't make sense. I wouldn't…."

"Hello?" Sandy called out, emerging from behind the corner to see Luke and Johnny sitting on the beds, their heads turned toward the door.

"Mr. Cohen. Hi." Luke sounded surprised, but relieved to see him.

"Hey, guys." Sandy approached Luke's bed, smiling as he made eye contact with both boys.

"How's Ryan?" Johnny asked immediately, voicing his worry.

"Well, he's in rough shape. Actually, he's in the car. I'm just here to get his stuff."

"He's out already?" Luke asked in amazement.

"I was just as shocked as you. Apparently, there was nothing they could do to facilitate healing anymore here than if he was at home, so they let him go."

"So he's okay?" Johnny pried, his sincerity clear.

Sandy tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows, letting out a tired sigh. "He'll be better when we get him home and in his own bed."

Luke looked up like he was going to say something, but turned away shortly after.

"What?" Sandy asked, hoping he didn't sound too harsh, but too emotionally spent to beat around the bush.

"I was just wondering…if you're going home…."

"Sure, Luke. Get your stuff, I'll get Ryan's."

Luke smiled appreciatively and nodded, clambering off the bed and hopping over to the dresser to start gathering his things. .

"Johnny, you're more than welcome to come along as well, if you'd like." Sandy noted the exhaustion in his own voice. The worry had worn him thin.

The small boy smiled, but shook his head, politely answering, "No, thanks, Mr. Cohen. We still have at least one game to play. I should really stay. But thank-you. I'll let the team know that Ryan's gonna be okay."

Noticing the glare Luke gave Johnny, Sandy sighed. He'd forgotten that the tournament was still in progress.. It seemed like everything came to a standstill when Ryan got hurt.

"Here, Mr. Cohen, that's Ryan's bag." Luke handed Sandy a half-full backpack before turning to retrieve his own, much larger, piece of luggage.

"That's it?" Sandy asked, unzipping Ryan's bag to make sure there was actually something in it.

Luke grinned and shrugged. "He packs light."

"Okay then. You ready?"

Luke nodded, awkwardly arranging his crutches around his duffel bag.

Sandy recognized the impossibility of what Luke was going to attempt. "I'll get that, Luke."

Johnny rose from his spot on the far bed and followed the others, closing the door to the emptied room behind him.

-------------

Luke placed his crutches diagonally into the trunk of the Beamer while Sandy struggled with the bulging duffel bag.

"You good?" Sandy asked, his thumb poised on the car remote.

"Good to go" Luke replied, hopping on one leg to the side of the car, opening the rear door and cautiously lowering himself into the leather seat.

If the mop of sandy blond hair hadn't been visible from the side of the headrest in front of him, Luke would've never known Ryan was there.

"How ya doing, kid?" Sandy asked as he inserted the key and started the engine with a flick of the wrist.

Luke curiously strained his ears to catch his friend's response, but no words were spoken. Sandy just nodded and reached over to pat Ryan on the knee. "I know, we'll be home shortly, though."

Luke swallowed and directed his gaze out the window, suddenly nervous and awkward in the backseat. In the general scheme of things, he was comfortable with Ryan, but this was different. He felt responsible. Ryan wouldn't have been in this condition if it wasn't for Luke begging him to come.

"You cold?"

Luke turned his head at the question. "Uh, no…."

He met Sandy's eyes in the rearview mirror, the man's expression indicating that he had all but forgotten someone was in the backseat.

Luke felt his cheeks flush and vowed not to speak again for the rest of the ride. It only added to his uneasiness that he wasn't able to see or hear friend's silent responses.

Sandy reached over and flipped the knob controlling the air conditioning to the 'off' position.

Silence persisted for several minutes. Everyone was quiet for their own reasons, and it was obvious that small talk was out of the question. After riding a long stretch of highway, a high pitched ring broke the peace.

Sandy's eyes shot to the passenger to his right as he fumbled with his cell.

"Hello?"

Luke shifted, the leather creaking beneath his weight. His ankle, awkwardly arranged in limited leg room of the cramped backseat, had been aching for quite some time, but he'd avoided drawing any attention to himself by shuffling around. The phone call had been a blessing, and he took advantage of the opportunity to reposition, hoping it would alleviate the discomfort for most of what remained of the trip.

"We're about forty-five minutes away, honey."

In front of Luke, the blond hair moved slightly, followed by a weak cough. Sandy eyed Ryan, concern written across his face, but turned back to face the road, nodding at whatever he was hearing through his cell.

"I know. We'll talk about this when I get home." He ran a hand over his face as he flipped his phone shut, casting quick glances at Ryan while maneuvering through traffic.

"You all right?"

"Yeah."

Luke was relieved to finally hear Ryan's voice, even if it was just a strained whisper.

"When we get home, keep in mind that soccer is the devil. My lovely wife's exact words."

Luke let out a small laugh, relieved that the mood had been lightened. If Sandy could joke around, things probably weren't that bad. Ryan would be fine.

"Did we win, at least?" Ryan's voice was quiet, but stronger. Sandy met Luke's eyes in the mirror again with a questioning arc of his eyebrows.

"Uh, yeah, man," Luke stammered, leaning forward so that he didn't have to speak too loud to be heard over the engine. "Johnny was so pissed, he was like a really little mad man. No one could've caught him. Scored the winner."

"Johnny? Mad man?" There was a tinge of humor in Ryan's voice, and Luke felt his entire body relaxing.

"I know, I could barely believe my eyes."

"And Johnson…."

__

Why? Why all of a sudden does he care about that prick?

"What about Johnson?" Luke didn't want to sound mad, but recognized that despite his best efforts, his anger shone through. Sandy gave him a warning glare, protectively glancing at Ryan out of the corner of his eye.

"Nothing happened?" Ryan's voice had dropped back down to a whisper, his pain and exhaustion apparent.

"You mean between him and Rickard?" Luke asked with a sigh, unsure of what, exactly, Ryan was asking. "No. That lunatic was kicked out…for obvious reasons."

Silence filled the car once again. The blond hair returned to its position from earlier and Luke let his gaze drift out the window again, assuming the conversation was over for the time being.

"Are you gonna tell me why? Why did that kid come after you?"

Upon hearing Sandy's question, a bolt of panic surged through Luke's chest. Somehow, he knew this entire mess was his fault.

"I don't know…." Ryan's whispered response shook audibly.

Much to Luke's surprise, Sandy kept pressing, his lawyer instincts overruling his concern. "Well if you do know something, as your lawyer, I want to know."

Luke felt a mixture of relief and guilt when there was no response.

The light turned green. Sandy shook his head and sighed, returning his attention to the road as he stepped on the gas.

Luke pushed aside his fears for the time being, his own curiosity suddenly driving him to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. Things didn't add up. Ryan was holding back on something. "But he was headed for Johnson. Why did you save Johnson's ass?"

Sandy's eyes were visible in the mirror, but Luke avoided contact this time around. Instead, he kept his gaze set on the blond hair in front of him.

"Because…Johnson's just like you."

The words were so quiet that Luke immediately questioned whether or not he'd heard them correctly. That couldn't be right. That was insane.

Baffled, he shook his head. "What?"

Ryan coughed painfully, followed by a shaky, shallow sigh. "Nevermind…."

Luke felt back against the seat with a frustrated sigh. After that comment, he wasn't sure he'd ever understand his friend.


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N - The War is almost over. I decided to separate the final portion into two segments, but it shouldn't be too long of a wait for the final chapter at all. .

Thanks for all of the reviews on the last chapter. Of course, special thanks to my wonderful betas/technicians (techies!),**Sister Rose, Cradle Robber,**little**Miss Suga**and, of course,**Brandywine.**You guys make my life so much easier and I can't thank you enough.

A different kind of thanks goes out to**muchtvs**, who inspired this chapter. It wouldn't have existed for quite a while if it wasn't for you!

Now, to everyone that reviewed the last chapter with skepticism toward Ryan's sudden hospital release, I want you to put yourself in Kirsten's shoes…now. Read on, my friends.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter Seven

The purpose of all war is ultimately peace. -- Saint Augustine

Sandy eased off the gas and crawled across the last few feet of driveway, slowly pressing his foot onto the brake pedal to minimize any jolting that would result from the shift in momentum. He listened to the careful clicking of the gears as he watched the letters on the shift take turns lighting up, finally coming to the stop when the capital "P" was illuminated. Satisfied that he'd managed to drive nearly the entire way home without the inertia of sharp turns or sudden stops, Sandy sat back and let out a nervous sigh. In the seat beside him, Ryan's badly battered body hadn't moved.

Ryan sat slumped against the support of the seatbelt. It had been raised enough so as not to put pressure on his broken collarbone. Instead, the thin black strap rested against his cheek, cradling his head as he slept. The boy's mussed hair was draped over his eyes like a blond mop, but through the tangled strands, Sandy could see the tops of Ryan's eyelids. He was still asleep.

Sandy didn't want to move him. He didn't want to reintroduce Ryan to the burden of pain. He didn't want the kid to have to endure another stifling wave of consciousness. Unfortunately, what Sandy wanted didn't matter. The second he turned into the driveway, he realized he'd handed the reins over to his wife. His flustered, control-freak of a wife who'd made it clear that she had no confidence in his parenting abilities. After this weekend, Sandy couldn't argue with her. She'd been right, the kid should've stayed home. She was always right.

"Mr. Cohen?"

Sandy jolted slightly at the tentative voice floating in on a whispered cloud of air from the backseat. He'd all but forgotten Luke was there.

"Yeah," Sandy answered just as lightly, running a hand over his tension-etched face.

"Are you going to wake him?"

Sandy almost laughed at the question. He surely wasn't going to let Ryan sleep off his assortment of ailments strapped into the front seat of a car. It was obvious that the kid had to be moved, but Sandy didn't want to be the one to do it. His eyes lifted and stared at the immaculately painted door of his home, willing it to open and reveal his wife.

"Can you go inside and ask Kirsten to come out?" Sandy was frustrated with himself. He hated the fact that he felt useless and helpless without his wife by his side. Had he become so dependent on her that he required her to guide him through all of life's little traumas? It didn't make sense. He was Sandy Cohen. He'd left home at a young age, supported himself whichever way he could, put himself through school, made a name for himself in the world of law, but he couldn't wake up the frail 17-year-old boy next to him. He needed his wife. She wanted his head on a stick right now, but he needed her.

Since Luke had yet to emerge from the vehicle, Sandy turned around and glanced over his shoulder. Luke was biting his bottom lip in concentration as he tried several different strategic approaches to pull himself up onto his one good foot.

Sandy shamefully shook his head. "I'm sorry, Luke. I forgot about the…." He waved his hand around in the air as he fought for the words to accurately describe Luke's condition. Finally, exhaustion and worry having taken their toll, he offered no further words, but gestured toward Luke's bad ankle before reaching for the button to pop the trunk so the kid could retrieve his trusty crutches.

"Sandy?"

Sandy turned back toward the shiny black door to see his wife step out to the edge of the first step. She hesitated for a moment, stealing a glance at her feet as if contemplating whether or not to worry about footwear, and shook her head before trotting down the remaining steps in her stocking feet.

Their eye contact was fleeting, but from the split-second glance into his wife's troubled eyes, he realized just how anxious she'd been. Her bitterness toward him notwithstanding, Kirsten had been worried sick. That much he knew for sure.

She tiptoed over to Ryan's door and held a hand up to the tinted glass of the window to get a better view of her "patient". After several squinting seconds, she obviously realized that Ryan was far from the land of the wakened and she lifted her gaze to give her husband a disgusted scowl.

"Right," Sandy mumbled in his frozen state, feeling extraordinarily useless more than anything else. Reaching down, he hastily unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned down to do the same to Ryan's.

The release of the seatbelt coincided with the click of the passenger door opening. Before Kirsten could react, the seatbelt recoiled rapidly. With the sudden lack of support, Ryan's head fell forward, bringing with it his upper body. Kirsten reached out to stop his descent but couldn't prevent the hard silver latch from smacking Ryan upside the head.

His eyelids shot open while he simultaneously gasped.

"Jesus, Sandy!" Kirsten scolded under her breath, one hand gently pressed against Ryan's abdomen, the other trying to disentangle the seatbelt from behind the kid's head.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I didn't think it would…. Not how you'd want to be awakened, is it?" Sandy tried to cut through the thick tension of the air inside the car, but not without receiving a disapproving shake of the head from his wife.

"Hmmm," Ryan responded, opening his eyes slowly and blinking deliberately several times as if testing his eyes in the sleepy haze through which he was still fighting to emerge.

Kirsten reached out with one hand and brushed the kid's shaggy hair from his eyes with a gentle stroke of her fingers, to which Ryan responded by squinting harder. "Do you have a headache?" she asked in a softened tone, motherly instincts dripping off every carefully formulated word.

Sandy watched Ryan carefully, allowing his wife to appraise the kid despite his bewildered state of mind. Ryan didn't answer her question immediately; instead, he swallowed deeply and tilted his head to the side, away from her touch.

Kirsten took a step back, pressing her palms down on the top of her thighs and pushing herself upright. She didn't look the slightest bit offended as she struggled to formulate a plan for extricating the broken teen from the vehicle.

Sandy glanced back at Luke, who'd finally arranged his crutches into a manageable position and was shutting the trunk quietly. Aware of his idleness, Sandy spurred himself into action, pushing into the door as he pressed on the handle, stepping out onto the driveway and starting to work his way around to the other side where the action was taking place.

"Mom? Is Ryan home?"

Seth could be heard seconds before his form appeared in the open doorway.

Sandy locked eyes with his son's, who no longer required an answer to his question. Seth jogged lightly down the steps, slowing as he neared the vehicle.

"Is he gonna stay in there?" Seth whispered to Luke, loud enough to be overheard by his parents.

"Seth," Kirsten warned, but turned to face her son nonetheless. "Help me help Ryan from the car," she demanded.

Seth nodded stepping forward.

"It's okay," Sandy interjected, drawing all eyes to himself. "I'll help."

Kirsten glared long and hard at her husband, placing one hand on her hip and setting her jaw in a way that conveyed every ounce of the bitterness she was so obviously feeling toward her spouse.

"Right…," Sandy conceded in quiet defeat, stepping back and allowing his son to follow orders.

Luke awkwardly hobbled over to stand beside Sandy, and both watched as Seth and Kirsten took hold of Ryan in areas they figured could do no harm, and gently tried to turn him to his right.

Once both feet were firmly planted on the black pavement of the driveway, Ryan wordlessly swatted at the helping hands and leaned forward on the side of the leather seat.

Sandy watched the light rise and fall of the large "27" stitched on the back of Ryan's tattered jersey, and turned his attention to his wife after several seconds of nothingness. Kirsten had one arm wrapped around her slight midsection while her other hand hovered loosely around her mouth, almost hiding the lines of worry creasing her features.

She met her husband's eyes and for a split second, he saw just how scared she really was. Sure she was mad, and rightfully so, but above and beyond all that, she was terrified. It was a look Sandy had only seen once from his wife, several years ago when a very young Seth was hospitalized for an inexplicably high fever.

Both adults stood in place, neither wanting to push Ryan faster than he could move. Finally, after realizing his parents had fallen off the control bandwagon, Seth took several steps forward and crouched down beside his friend.

Sandy tilted his head, struggling to make out the whispered hush of Seth's words with little to no success. Kirsten's expression changed from concern to curiosity, but she didn't move an inch from her spot on the driveway. She allowed her sons to communicate on a level which she'd never been able to accomplish with either of them. Luke turned away, suddenly awkward observing what had turned into a family affair of glares.

Ryan gave a slight nod and Seth patted his knee lightly at the end of his mysterious speech. Without any further help, Ryan slowly maneuvered up and onto his feet, blinking rapidly and moving his lower jaw in slow circles as each new wave of pain revealed itself.

Kirsten and Sandy leaned forward simultaneously to offer support, but Seth held up a hand, closed his eyes and gave a quick shake of his head. Both parents, aware of the high intensity that would cause Seth to resort to actions rather than words, stood in their place and allowed their son to work his connection with Ryan.

Seth walked alongside his slow-moving friend without touching but providing a supportive presence nonetheless. As the boys slowly made their way past the overwhelmed parents, Seth turned and raised another hand to his mom and dad, indicating they should keep their distance for the time being.

Sandy turned to watch as Seth guided Ryan around the house as opposed to through it, and was impressed that his son would've thought enough to avoid the unnecessary stairs that would accompany the alternative route.

Kirsten let out a tension-riddled sigh and turned toward her husband once the boys had disappeared behind the corner. "Go," she pointed to the car.

Sandy could see Luke stepping backward and turning away in anticipation of the domestic squabble.

"Excuse me?" Sandy shot back, his voice just barely above a whisper in his shocked state.

"Go fill his prescriptions. I'm assuming you haven't done that yet?"

Sandy felt a wave of relief sweep through his chest at his wife's reasoning. She was right. He hadn't filled the prescriptions.

"No," he confirmed her assumption, running a hand through his hair again, his scalp still tight with tension.

"Well, he's going to need a dose of Vicodin in half an hour."

Sandy's brow furrowed in confusion as he watched his wife cross her arms over her chest, giving him a knowing glare.

"How d'you…."

"I called the hospital, Sandy. I talked to his doctor."

"You…. When? Why?"

"Why?" she growled, stepping forward and lowering her arms, fists clenched at her sides as she addressed her husband. "What did you_expect_me to do,_Sandy_? You call and give me this cryptic summary of what happened, blurting out that he has a collapsed lung, among a million other things. In my mind, I immediately start going over what arrangements will have to be made to airlift him to Hoag, and then you tell me you're_driving_him home? You scared the hell out of me! I assumed you had some halfwit intern for a doctor who didn't know the difference between a scapula and a scalpel. So yes, I_called_the hospital."

Sandy flinched after his wife's speech, but knew the woman well enough to know that she wasn't yelling out of spite, but more so out of fear. He stepped toward her tightly wound form and rubbed a supportive hand on her arm, all the while assuring her, "It's going to be all right, Kirsten."

"No." She shook her head and shifted her eyes to the ground but didn't pull away when she responded, her voice thick with emotion, "Everything would've been all right if_you_had just listened to me. He shouldn't have gone anywhere this weekend…."

"I'm…going to go inside…call my mom," Luke's voice rang out after several seconds of silence. Both Sandy and Kirsten turned to watch the crutched boy flee the scene for the refuge of the Cohen house.

Sandy sighed and made a conscious effort to compose himself. "What did his doctor say?"

Kirsten held up her hands, her face twisted in confusion. "Didn't you talk to him?"

Feeling belittled by his wife's comments, Sandy shook his head and closed his eyes in an attempt to hide his humiliation before he formed an answer. "Ryan didn't…want me there." He took another breath before rambling, "And then he came out and I wanted to talk to the doctor but I didn't want to make Ryan wait while I…. No, I didn't talk to him." He met his wife's gaze for a minute and latched onto something that, in any other situation, he would have perceived as sympathy.

"I heard the words 'collapsed lung' and I panicked," Kirsten started, significantly calmer as she explained the situation to her husband. "I remember back in high school, Megan Price was in a car accident where she suffered a collapsed lung. I remember her being in the hospital for two weeks on some sort of pressure stabilizer…." She shook her head, returning to the present. "So when you told me about Ryan, my head started spinning. But the doctor explained that it was a spontaneous rupture that collapsed only ten percent of his one lung." Kirsten thoughtfully looked up at Sandy's weary face. "I just thought…."

Sandy reached forward and placed a hand on his wife's shoulder, squeezing his fingers several times before slowly pulling her forward and into his embrace. He could feel the tension dissipating as he continued to hold her close, rubbing his thumbs in circles as he'd always done to comfort her.

"He shouldn't have gone anywhere this weekend," Kirsten said again, her words muffled through the fabric of her husband's shirt.

"But he did…and yes, he's worse off, but he's home now. And you and I at each other's throats isn't going to help him feel any better."

He placed a kiss on the top of her head and felt her nod against his chest.

She pulled back with a sigh. "Go fill his prescriptions and I'll see if Seth lets me near the pool house." Her lips curved into a sad smile at the truth in her own joke.

Sandy allowed himself to join in. It felt good to smile. It felt good to be home. It felt good to hug his wife.

-------------------------------

Seth rummaged through a pile of sweaters on a shelf at the back of the pool house, letting out a successful, "Da, da-da, DA!" when he stumbled upon the desired, full-zip hoodie.

He fiddled with the zipper as he turned around, aware of Ryan struggling to lower himself onto a corner of the bed.

Seth knew his foster brother well, and with that came the knowledge that Ryan Atwood thought that there was nothing Ryan Atwood needed help with. Ryan Atwood helped others, even when it was so ridiculously out of his direct line of duty. Seth knew that, unlike himself, Ryan Atwood wouldn't put on a show. Ryan Atwood wouldn't exaggerate his own plight for attention. Ryan Atwood_hated_attention. With all of this in mind, it was more than clear to Seth that Ryan was in a great deal of pain. Real pain. Not the I'm-the -hardest-done-by-drama-queen-in-world kind of pain,_real_pain. So when Seth saw Ryan shivering, he didn't ask whether he was cold, cover him with a blanket, or something equally awkward or gay, he simply retreated to the stash of warmer clothes and searched for something to offer his ailing brother.

Seth jumped off the step and approached the side of the bed, holding out the chosen sweater. "Dude, the grunge look was, like, 10 years ago." Seth pointed to Ryan's mangled jersey. "I'm going to suggest you switch it up a little."

Ryan held out his un-slung arm and Seth dropped the sweater into his brother's open palm.

Seth plunked himself down on the floor, leaned back on his hands and laughed out loud. "I think I'm gonna have to go identify Dad's body. Mom is_mad._"

Ryan half-heartedly fiddled with the sweater, awkwardly impeded by his single arm and battered, objecting body.

"I think Mom had some sort of panic attack when Dad called. She was, like, gasping and pacing, and all I kept hearing was how she was going to kill Dad." Seth pushed himself forward, bending his knees until his feet were flat on the ground. He scanned the scenery through the pool house windows. "So far so good. I have yet to hear a single gunshot."

A quick glance to his left showed that Ryan had made little to no progress with the sweater. Seth put aside all of Ryan's weird I-don't-need-help beliefs, and jumped up onto his feet. He grabbed the sweater out of Ryan's hands and opened it up.

"Dude, I know you hate this, but it's painful to watch," Seth teased, draping the sweater over Ryan's shoulders.

With the new close proximity of the two boys, Seth could hear the audible shiver in Ryan's breath. He put aside all knowledge of the Ryan Atwood Way, leaned forward and tilted his head down until he could see Ryan's eyes. "Dude," he started in a more tentative voice, "Do you want me to turn off the A/C?"

Seth held his position and waited for some form of response. Ryan hadn't spoken a word since he'd been retrieved from the car, and though limited vocal use wasn't all that uncommon or inconsistent with his personality, the extended silent treatment was making Seth feel mildly uneasy.

Ryan quietly raised his good hand, slowly rubbing at his eyes before letting out a sigh and separating his eyelids to reveal an unfocused gaze. Finally, after blinking heavily a few times, Ryan turned his head an inch until he could see Seth's concerned expression. "Yeah," he whispered, immediately turning away and bowing his head again, as if the single word answer had drained what little energy he had left.

Seth bounced up to his feet and strode across the room to the thermostat, bobbing his head to the imaginary beat of the music in his head as he fiddled with the knob. "Done and done," he stated with an accomplished clap on his hands.

"So, Ryan," Seth took a large, exaggerated step toward the bed where the slumped form of his brother was seated. "D'you want to fill me in on what happened? I mean, you know, in the traditional, single syllable words form. Just give me a bunch of nouns and I'll piece it together. You know, like, truck, me, road, schmucked…okay, well the last one wasn't a noun, but you get my point."

Seth watched Ryan raise his head up a few inches, the corners of his lips twitching with a flash of a smile. Once recognizing the reaction, Seth felt an enormous wave of relief and adrenaline all at once, and had to fight the urge to yell, "It lives, it lives!" Not willing to let the humor of the situation evaporate with time, Seth continued to ramble. "Seriously, dude, you kind of look like you've been…steamrollered. Am I right?"

Ryan closed his eyes but a trace of the smile still remained. He shook his head slightly before replying, "No."

"No," Seth repeated as though taking the word out for a test drive. "Well that's a step in the right direction." His mocking enthusiasm wasn't lost on Ryan. Seth lowered himself back onto the ground a few feet from the edge of the bed where Ryan sat so that eye contact could be established without effort. Once settled on the expensive rug, Seth continued. "But really, like,_seriously_, what happened? I was under the impression that soccer wasn't the most violent of all games…."

Ryan let out a tired sigh. "Tomorrow?" he asked in such a pathetically exhausted voice that Seth had no choice but to abandon his own version of the Spanish Inquisition and postpone his curiosity for at least another 12 hours.

"Fine," he mumbled, his disappointment blatant. "But when you're good and drugged up, I want an explanation. One with, like…verbs…and_adjectives_. Lots and lots of_adjectives._"

The ghost of a smile returned and Ryan agreed with a slight tip of his head.

Seth dragged himself back up onto his feet, significantly deflated after being shot down. He reached over to the head of the bed and grabbed a pillow in his left hand. "Here," he said through a yawn as he tossed the pillow toward Ryan. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll go grab you a movie or something for entertainment…seeing as how Playstation is out of the question." Seth moved his thumbs around on an imaginary controller as if demonstrating how essential it was to have two working arms.

With his good hand, Ryan grabbed the pillow beside him and arranged it carefully in the center of the bed.

Seth took that as his cue and started to make his way to the nearest exit but stopped before reaching the door. He glanced through the glass window, into the kitchen. "And while I'm in there, I'll make sure Mom isn't making any of her_healing_food." He spun to face Ryan again, with his face serious and drawn, his voice lowered in secrecy. "Believe it or not, man, it's worse than her_regular_cooking. Yeah, it'll heal, all right. Once you've had a taste, your throat will heal shut." With wide eyes, he nodded, enforcing the seriousness of the matter with his expression.

Again, Seth caught sight of the fleeting smile. He took great pride in knowing that in Ryan's worst moment, Seth had made him almost-smile three times. In Seth Cohen's mind, that was success.

----------------------

Kirsten opened her eyes into a direct ray of sunlight, immediately reacting by turning her face and blinking the yellow spots out of her vision. As she fought to find her way through the haze, her senses defined her surroundings. The pool house. She stole a quick glance at her watch and let out a sigh of relief when she realized it was 9:23 am. She hadn't slept through the annoying three-tone beep of her watch alarm that would go off in seven minutes, indicating that it was time for Ryan to down another round of pills.

She rubbed at her eyes, caring very little that she was probably smudging her mascara from the day before.

Seth had come in from the pool house the night before and given her a "calming pep talk". Ignoring the oxymoron title her son had given to his speech, she'd listened. When he was done explaining that Ryan had talked, and smiled and was just tired and sore and not particularly fond of words to start off with, she'd relaxed somewhat. But not without glaring at Seth for taking yet another stab at her cooking by discouraging what he so disgustedly referred to as "healing food".

So, after several minutes of deliberation and preparation, Kirsten snatched Ryan's prescriptions from Sandy's hands. She'd organized the pills into six little piles that would last for the next 24 hours, grabbed several bottles of water from the fridge and insisted to Sandy that she'd take the graveyard shift. She then walked purposefully toward to the pool house.

Ryan had accepted the pills, allowed her to remove his jersey and help him properly back into the sweater. Almost immediately, he fell into sleep, his inhibitions regarding attention giving way to his exhaustion. Even though Kirsten knew he needed rest more than anything else, it bothered her that it came so easily. In the previous week, when Ryan had been at the peak of whatever illness it was that should have prevented him from attending the disastrous soccer tournament, he still wouldn't sleep in her presence. The second she'd set foot in the door, he'd turn over, aware. But this time had been different. The drugs and the pain had pushed him beyond caring.

Kirsten had retreated to the wicker chair and set her watch to go off every two hours, following the instructions on the "Caring for a Concussion" pamphlet to the word. Sleep was fleeting, and she filled the hours by reading and re-reading the small booklets regarding Ryan's various ailments. Every time she came across the red and bolded "beware of these symptoms" section, a wave of panic would sweep through her chest. She'd had to fight the urge to seek out a pad and pen to make notes on the warning signs, convincing herself that she was being neurotic.

The first three times the watch went off, Kirsten was already beside Ryan, waiting for the beep before gently nudging him awake with soothing words. She took solace in knowing that the Vicodin was working. From what she could tell, though Ryan was in obvious discomfort, he had little trouble finding his way back to sleep after each waking.

The annoying beep of 9:30 snapped Kirsten's eyes open again and she immediately climbed to her feet to avoid falling into another state of half-sleep. At the crackle of the wicker, Ryan stirred lightly, and Kirsten gave him time and space to wake up while she retrieved his dose from the side table along with a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

When she rose from behind the counter with the water in hand, she was surprised to see Ryan sitting upright, the weight of his upper body leaning heavily on his good arm.

She stepped lightly across the distance separating her from the bed, twisting the cap off the bottle as she neared. She sat beside him, careful not to shift the mattress too much, and held her hand in front of him, surely in his line of vision. He straightened up and accepted the pills into his palm.

Kirsten forced herself to look elsewhere, focusing on the reflected waves from the pool dancing on the walls. She started counting the layers, stopping at thirty-four when she felt her arm getting tired, and realized that Ryan had yet to accept the bottle of water she was holding out.

After a quick glance back to her right, Kirsten noted that he'd had made no effort to take the pills. His fingers curled loosely around the stash of drugs and the back of his hand rested on his knee.

"Ryan, honey. Are you okay?" She leaned toward him, reaching over and brushing his hair from his eyes.

He twitched at her touch, let out a soft sigh and scrunched his face up for a split second. "Sorry," he croaked, then swallowed before providing more of an answer. "Just dizzy…."

Kirsten's mind flashed with mental pictures of the red, bolded warnings, and scanned her memory for any mention of dizziness. When nothing particular stood out, she did her best to suppress panic as she switched gears and searched through her common sense. She placed a reassuring hand on Ryan's knee and squeezed her fingers lightly. "You know what, honey? You probably just need some sugar in your system. I'll go get you some juice, okay?"

Ryan just set his jaw and blinked rapidly while maintaining a steady stare at the ground.

Kirsten wasted no time exiting the pool house and beelining a path to the fridge in search of sugary liquids.

------------------------

Seth flipped shut his cell as he entered the kitchen, rerouting when the main path was blocked by the open fridge door.

"Seth, do you know why there isn't any juice made?" his mom's voice called from behind the giant appliance's door.

"Uh…I don't know." Seth shrugged her off, leaving the kitchen and heading for the pool house before any more inane questions could be asked.

He knocked lightly on the unlatched door, pushing it open as he entered without waiting for a response.

"Dude, you're up!" he exclaimed to Ryan's back. "That's good, 'cause I've gotta talk to you." Seth sat on the bed next to Ryan, flipping his phone over in his hand. A quick look told Seth that the smiles would be a little harder to come by today. "How're you feeling," he asked, recognizing the tension in his brother's posture.

"Sick," Ryan whispered, swallowing thickly.

Seth looked around, inconspicuously slipping his foot under the night table, wrapping his toes around the rim of the stainless steel wastebasket and pulling it out of hiding.

"Just incase," he mumbled under his breath before turning to face Ryan. "Well then, I won't bug you for the detailed recounting that you promised me last night, and I'll get right to the point." Seth held up his cell phone to represent his topic. "Luke called, said he was coming over to talk to you. I told him you were sleeping, which I assumed you were at the time. But he's Luke…you know, kinda slow, and I don't think he caught on. So we can be expecting him shortly."

Ryan didn't move, but audibly inhaled and exhaled slowly. Seth took that as a good sign and continued. "Mom's still mad at Dad and didn't want him near you, for reasons I can't figure out. So he's been riding the Jewish wave of guilt, but he should be back from surfing shortly, and just a warning, he's going to want to talk to you. Something tells me there's more to this than you're letting on…which is…well, nothing, but whatever it is, he's taken moping to a whole new level and it's beyond irritating." Seth paused, tossing his cell up a few inches into the air and catching it with one hand. "Anyway, I just thought I'd warn you. And, you know, wish you good luck."

"Thanks," Ryan finally replied, his voice slightly stronger but his posture remained the same.

"My pleasure." Seth stood, reaching down to pull the wastebasket closer. "I'm going to leave this here…and…uh…good luck with…_all that_."

Seth heard the short, shaky laugh and took that as a sign that his work was done. He strutted successfully through the door, narrowly avoiding his mother and almost colliding with the large glass of juice she was trying not to spill.

---------------

When the doorbell rang, Seth tossed his comic book into a disorganized heap on the couch and leapt to his feet. Before he could swing the door open completely, he started, "Luke, you could have gone straight to the…." Seth paused when his eyes settled on the unfamiliar figure shifting nervously from foot to foot. Though_Luke-esque_, the guy was not who Seth was expecting.

"Uh…hi." Seth shook his head and tried to organize his thoughts to address the surprise visitor. "Can I help you?"

The jittery guy shifted his eyes around for a second as if searching for a reason for his visit. Finally, he cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets and spoke while maintaining sporadic eye contact. "Is…I mean, does Ryan Atwood live here?"

Seth took a step back, as if inviting the guy in but continued to glare at him suspiciously. Was he another Chino friend? Why was he so obviously uncomfortable? The entire situation didn't sit right with Seth and he suddenly wished he hadn't answered the door at all.

The two stood on the foyer landing for more than a few awkward seconds. Seth finally took the initiative to break the silence in an attempt to get some answers. "I'm Seth Cohen," he started, extending his hand.

"Terry Johnson," the larger boy said, shaking Seth's hand with a sweaty palm and quickly releasing the contact, returning his hand to his pocket immediately.

Seth nodded. "D'you go to Harbor?" he asked. He couldn't remember ever seeing the guy around school, but there were plenty of his "type" and he could have easily blended in with the crowd.

"No," Terry Johnson replied, his tightlipped answers and awkward stance indicating that his uneasiness was increasing by the second. "I went to Pacific."

"Oh," Seth answered. What the hell would some guy from Pacific want with Ryan? It wasn't adding up, but he couldn't bring himself to tolerate the awkwardness of the situation any longer. "Well, Ryan's in the pool house...." Seth paused when he saw Johnson's surprised expression. Whoever this guy was, it was obvious he didn't know Ryan all that well. At all, really. "I guess you could go out there, but he's not really...up to par. I mean...if it can wait...."

"I won't be long.... I just need to talk to him for a second," Terry Johnson promised, his defeated plea breaking something inside of Seth, forcing him to give in.

All of Seth's instincts told him this guy wasn't what Ryan needed right now, but he agreed with a nod. Seth started to make his was through the kitchen, waving a hand, indicating that Johnson should follow. "I don't know how talkative he'll be, but you can give it a shot," Seth called out over his shoulder. He could hear his mother talking loudly on the phone in the dining room, where she always went to pace during intense phone calls.

Seth stood back and gestured toward the pool house doors. He noticed the hesitation in Johnson's steps, and it only served to spark Seth's curiosity and skepticism further. He waited until Johnson finished his slow entrance into the pool house before taking a few steps to his right and positioning himself against the wall. He tilted his head and strained to make out any words he could that might help the pieces of this extremely confusing jigsaw puzzle slide into place.

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The final chapter should be around shortly.


	8. Chapter Eight

Last chapter. Thanks so much for all of the wonderful reviews. You guys have been so awesome and I can't thank you enough for all of the support (and in some cases, beatings) I've received. You're all incredible.

And of course, the obligatory thanks goes out to the betas that torture themselves by tackling my work. Thanks to all of you for your time and patience.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter Eight

It is a fool's plan to teach a man to be a cur in peace, and think that he will be a lion in war. -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Ryan cringed at the sound of footsteps. There was nothing worse when you felt extremely nauseous than having the additional worry of others watching you. He appreciated Kirsten sticking around all night to wake him up and hand him his pills, but the smothering attention was just that, smothering. He wasn't six. He needed his space.

"Hey, man…."

The unexpected voice caused Ryan's breath to catch in his throat. He searched his mind as rapidly as his drug-induced state would allow, trying fervently to put a face, name or any kind of association to the voice. Even before Johnson's unwelcoming features registered in his mind, Ryan knew the voice belonged to someone that he wasn't particularly fond of. It was weird how impressions could be formulated faster than actual recognition.

Ryan glanced at the wastebasket before willing himself to turn around. He wanted to know exactly where it was…"just incase", as Seth so casually put it.

He rotated gingerly, his neck stiffer than it had been the night before and not completely cooperating with his brain's request.

Ryan managed to alter his position just enough to caught the pathetic sight of Johnson standing slouched a few feet inside the door, his head lowered and his eyes raised, and the most guilty of all expressions plastered on his face.

Through the restriction of tight, bruised cartilage and pain in his ribs, Ryan took as deep a breath as he could muster. He let it out slowly and lifted his gaze until he could focus on Johnson's eyes.

Johnson moved a step closer, removed his hands from his pockets and clasped them together nervously, kneading his fingers roughly several times before finally speaking. "Atwoo -- uh…Ryan…. I just…."

Ryan frowned uncomfortably. Johnson's presence was doing nothing for his sour stomach. His brain was working on overdrive trying to figure out how this all came to pass. Why the hell was Johnson in the pool house? How did he find him? Who let him in…and why? It didn't make sense. And Ryan didn't really care. He just didn't want Johnson in the room, in _his _room, especially when he felt like his stomach was lodged about halfway up his esophagus.

"Look, man," Johnson continued with a sigh. "I just…I just wanted to say…thanks."

Ryan could barely believe his ears. For some reason, Johnson's words lit a fire of rage within Ryan's chest.

"For what? Saving your ass or not saying anything?"

Johnson, obviously taken aback by the quiet but bitter words, stuttered on air for a second before responding. "Uh…both, I guess. But really, man, I'm sorry about…all this." Johnson unclenched his fingers and waved a hand in Ryan's direction, acknowledging the war wounds.

Ryan shrugged. He hadn't expected an apology from Johnson, but at the same time, he wasn't going to accept it and pretend nothing happened. He couldn't do that. His summer was a write-off, and Johnson wasn't going to make that all better by mumbling a couple of meaningless words. Instead, Ryan cringed as his stomach rolled over again. He slouched further forward and subconsciously wrapped his good arm around his midsection.

"Why'd you do it?" Johnson asked bluntly.

Ryan didn't want to talk. At this exact moment, he just wanted to die, but Johnson was going to be heard; that much was obvious.

"Why'd you do that for me when I've been nothing but a complete fuckin' ass to you?"

"I don't know. Seems pretty stupid now, though…." Ryan answered honestly in a single, forced breath. If he'd had a glimpse of the future to get some idea of the consequences of that action, he surely would have chosen a different route.

"I called the director of the league this morning…filed a complaint against Rickard for what he did to you. I had a few other people that were there to witness call in…. I think he'll be banned…." Johnson paused and his cheeks reddened as he confessed his guilt. "I don't know, man. I know it's not much, but I figured…you know, it was the least I could do…."

Ryan slowly turned his gaze off Johnson, bowing his head into his chest as he tried to sort through his conflicting emotions. On one hand, he was still burning with hate for the guy who'd made every second of the previous weekend a nightmare. On the other hand, Johnson had made the effort…which, from what Ryan knew about the guy, went against all of his social norms.

Ryan didn't feel like deciding what he thought of Johnson; he just hoped that the guy had learned his lesson, whatever that may be. It was hard to believe that Johnson learned anything from the disaster, seeing as how Ryan was the one struggling through waves of pain and nausea. From the look on the guy's face, it was clear that something had changed. The whole situation was a little too déjà vu for Ryan's liking. Luke's drastic transition from ass to friend was shocking enough but this was mind-blowing. However, Ryan couldn't even fathom the thought of being Johnson's friend. He'd want to get a few punches in on the guy before even considering such an idea. Retribution. It would be quite a while before he would be physically ready to dole out retribution.

"You don't have to do this. I won't tell anyone about your brother," Ryan stated evenly, almost sounding annoyed as he reassured Johnson.

Johnson nodded, relief relaxing his shoulders into a less rigid position. "Well…I am sorry."

Ryan nodded back down into his chest without looking up. That much was obvious.

-----------------------

"Cohen, what the hell are you doing?"

Seth jumped at Luke's voice, shocked despite his knowing that Luke was going to make an appearance sooner or later. Somehow, the surprise arrival of this Johnson fellow had affected Seth's memory.

"Uh…." He shook his head, realizing that though Luke wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, a trained monkey would have known Seth was eavesdropping. "Fine…I was just…."

Luke limped forward, not bothering with the crutches that he'd been using the night before. He leaned in when Seth started whispering his explanation. "There's this guy that stopped by…."

"And?" Luke pressed when Seth paused for an unacceptable amount of time.

"And…well, I still don't know what the hell's going on," Seth conceded in a louder voice, throwing his arms up in frustration. When he turned back, he realized that Luke had pulled away, squinting so he could see what was going on in the pool house, and obviously distracted by what he saw.

"That fucking ass…," Luke growled, shaking his head and barging in through the half-opened pool house door. Seth, in a state of confusion deeper than he thought possible, took advantage of the opportunity to follow Luke and join the conversation he'd been straining to overhear.

Once Seth's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he noticed the Johnson guy, standing just a few feet in from the door, his posture just as awkward as it had been when Seth answered the front door a few minutes earlier. Ryan had moved only slightly, enough so that by looking up, he would have been able to see that the pool house population had just doubled.

"What the fuck, Johnson?" Luke spat, his voice vibrating with anger, causing Ryan's head to shoot up, his tired gaze jumping from Luke to Johnson and finally landing on Seth.

Seth responded with wide eyes and an honest shrug. He really had no idea what was happening and it was irking him like a bug bite that wouldn't stop itching. He needed a scratch. He wished someone would just explain what the hell was going on.

"Don't you think you've done enough?" Luke continued, and for some reason, Seth found himself grabbing onto the sleeve of Luke's shirt to prevent him from charging the mysterious visitor.

Through his surprise, Johnson still managed to look utterly pathetic. Whatever history Luke and this guy had, it was obvious that this Johnson fellow was fresh out of fight.

"I was just leaving, Ward…," Johnson sighed the words, holding his hands up as if to claim his innocence. He stepped toward the door but turned back to face Ryan, who had his eyes closed and appeared to be caught up in his own personal struggle. Seth hoped his brother remembered where the wastebasket was.

"I'm sorry, Ryan," Johnson mumbled sincerely, turning and squeezing past Luke, through the open pool house door.

Luke lowered his frame a couple of inches once his enemy had departed, and Seth took that as a sign that he could release his restraining grip on Luke's shirt.

"I'm sorry, man…but what the hell was he doing here?"

Ryan simply let out a shaky sigh that showed he was in no mood to talk about it. He rubbed deep circles over his eyes with his thumb and index finger of his good hand, and mumbled, "He's an ass…."

"Then I'm an ass," Luke scoffed.

Seth felt himself slipping deeper and deeper into the blackness of ignorance, and prayed that someone would explain this mess to him soon.

Ryan pulled his hand away to reveal bloodshot eyes and squinted to convey his own confusion toward Luke's comment.

"Yesterday, in the car…you said that Johnson and I were the same," Luke murmured under his breath, almost as if the words brought along with them an incredible burden of shame.

"Yeah, well, you're different cuts of ass."

Seth smiled. It sounded like a joke, and even though Ryan didn't look like he was kidding around, Seth could decipher the intended humor through the extenuating circumstances.

"I don't get it," Luke replied after a few seconds.

"That doesn't surprise me, but I don't get it either," Seth added his two cents.

"Shut up, Cohen."

"Never mind," Ryan groaned, interrupting the two and grimacing as he readjusted his arm in his sling.

"I just…." Luke glanced nervously at Seth for split second before continuing. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, man. I shouldn't have dragged you into that mess." He shook his head in regret. "I never thought…_this_…would happen." Luke, too, waved a hand toward Ryan, summing up his injuries with a single hand movement.

Ryan raised his good hand in acceptance and let out a soft groan, wincing as he shifted his seat slightly, his discomfort palpable.

"Ryan, the doctor said that it's probably the antibiotics that are making you feel…. Oh." Kirsten slammed to a halt in the doorway, waving the phone around as she surveyed the surprise crowd.

"Mrs. Cohen," Luke acknowledged her sheepishly, suddenly looking quite guilty and self-conscious.

"Mom," Seth nodded to his mother, somewhat mocking Luke, but mainly in an attempt to placate her with a sweet greeting so she didn't physically kick his ass out of the pool house.

Kirsten smiled at Luke, gave her son a questioning glare and then finally landed her gaze on Ryan.

He shrugged, clearly without an explanation for the rampage of events that had taken place during her short leave.

"I think that you guys should probably give Ryan some space…."

"I was just leaving." Luke pointed to the doorway that was instantly occupied by another figure.

"How's he…. Oh." Sandy placed his hand on Kirsten's shoulder as he approached, then stopped behind his wife when he, also, observed the wealth of pool house dwellers.

"Mr. Cohen," Luke nodded again as he proposed the greeting.

"Dad." Seth couldn't contain his smile this time around. His dad had this incredible ability to assume an extraordinarily befuddled expression when he was caught off guard.

Ryan just shrugged again, pulling his sweater tighter when his entire body shook with a shiver.

"Uh…okay," Sandy started. "Well, if you guys wouldn't mind, I'd like to have a word with Ryan." His voice rose at the end, almost as if he was asking his injured foster son's permission. The worry Sandy witnessed sweeping across Ryan's face was almost heartbreaking.

Luke nodded instantly, darting from the tension-thick room with an awkward limp. Kirsten reluctantly complied after several seconds of contemplation and grabbed Seth by the shoulders, navigating him out the door ahead of her.

"But, Mom, I still don't know what --" Seth's complaint was cut short when Kirsten shut the door behind her.

Sandy walked over and sat in the chair opposite the bed, not wanting to crowd Ryan.

"So, how're you doing?"

No response. Ryan tucked his chin tighter into his chest. Sandy waited patiently for several seconds, allowing the usually quiet teen a chance to arrange his thoughts. Sandy knew he was the last person that Ryan wanted to talk to. Though it was completely understandable, Sandy found his frustration growing. How could he sort through this mess if the kid wouldn't say anything?

Sandy caught a few quick glances at his watch throughout the period of silence and once passing the thirty second mark, his building frustration replaced whatever was left of his fleeting patience.

"Look, Ryan --"

"Shit…," Ryan moaned, all but falling off the side of the bed, grabbing the wastebasket with his good arm and pulling it close just in time.

Sandy instinctively jumped to his feet, placing a hand on his foster son's shoulder to prevent him from falling off the edge of the bed to which he was barely clinging. Sandy did his best to support Ryan's upper body, but the kid gasped between his gut wrenching heaves, pulling away from the older man's touch.

"Oh God…sorry, Ryan. I didn't mean to hurt you…." Sandy trailed off when he realized that Ryan was far more concerned with ridding his stomach of its contents than listening to a stuttered apology.

Sandy settled for the small task of rubbing Ryan's back until what seemed like endless heaving started to slow and finally cease altogether. The kid inhaled deeply, the breath catching in his throat and finishing with a heavy shake.

Ryan lowered the wastebasket but didn't release his grip on the rim of the stainless steel bin, keeping his head bowed as a precautionary measure.

"You all right now?" Sandy asked softly, his hand stationary on Ryan's back, pausing at the apex of one of the slow circles.

Ryan groaned and shook his head, leaning forward again as his stomach resumed its convulsing.

Unable to suppress another wave of panic, Sandy turned and urgently called for his wife over his shoulder.

---------------------

Almost as if she'd been waiting for the emergency summoning, Kirsten had come sprinting into the pool house. Sandy immediately stood back and nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot while watching his wife take care of Ryan. After much soothing and convincing the kid that there was nothing left in his system besides his stomach lining to throw up, Kirsten coaxed Ryan to lie down.

She grabbed a tissue from the night table and wiped at the tears that streaked down Ryan's cheeks from the sheer strain and pain associated with the horrendous and seemingly endless bouts wracking dry heaves.

While Kirsten worked the front line, Sandy was acting on his wife's command, only moving when told to do so. He'd been assigned the secondary tasks of retrieving ice packs from the freezer and keeping Seth from entering the pool house, the latter by far the more difficult of the two jobs.

When Sandy returned from the kitchen with an armful of freezing gel packs, Kirsten was dabbing a cool, wet face cloth over Ryan's sweaty neck and face. He had his eyes closed, but his jumpy breathing pattern and occasional grimace showed he was still quite awake.

"Here," Kirsten demanded, holding out a hand toward her husband, calling for the ice packs by opening and closing her fingers several times.

Sandy obeyed, dropping a gel pack from his numb fingers into his wife's hand.

Kirsten manipulated the item for a few seconds, bending it every which way. When it reached satisfactory pliability, she gently placed the cool object on the right side of Ryan's chest.

He gasped immediately, his eyes shooting open as he tried to swat the invading object off his body with his good hand.

"No, sweetie," Kirsten started, taking the kid's wrist with one hand and holding the ice pack in place with the other. "It's gonna help. I promise."

Ryan's hand went limp beneath her grasp and she slowly lowered it to his side before sticking her hand out toward her husband, demanding another icy package.

Once the kid looked like he was buried underneath one hundred pounds of dark blue gel packs, Kirsten sat back and let out a worried sigh.

"Let him sleep, Sandy," she said softly without turning to face her husband.

Sandy nodded and ran a hand over his face with comparable weariness. "Later, Ryan," he whispered to the sleeping boy. "We'll talk later."

The two adults retreated to the matching chairs at the foot of the bed. Enveloped by the silence, they kept watchful eyes on the frail figure beneath the mound of ice packs.

----------------------

Sandy was sure his heart skipped a beat when Ryan woke with a start. Discarding his own personal worry, he rose to his feet, and approached the side of the bed.

Ryan's eyes were blurry with the remnants of sleep, but he seemed somewhat more lucid than he'd been an hour earlier.

Kirsten had stayed for a good half hour until the phone started ringing incessantly. She'd exited while grumbling obscenities under her breath directed toward her father, leaving Sandy alone with the sleeping teen.

"How're you feeling now, kid?" Sandy asked, a sad smile playing on his lips.

Ryan coughed, groaned, swallowed and struggled to sit up, reaching for one of the many, now warm, ice packs on his chest. "Wet," he replied groggily.

"Yeah, sorry. We probably should have taken these off a little while ago. I can't imagine they're doing much good right now."

Sandy took over the job of ice pack removal while Ryan watched in silence. The tired teen's eyes drifted shut every few seconds but he ultimately managed to remain awake throughout the process.

"So," Sandy started as he removed the final pack from Ryan's chest, dropped it onto the pile on the floor and retreated to the wicker chair. "You up for a little discussion?" Sandy immediately regretting his tone and quickly added, "I'm serious, if you're not up for it right now, we can talk later when you're feeling better."

After a few awkward seconds, in which Sandy doubted himself numerous times, Ryan readjusted his sling before speaking. "I know what you're going to say," he started, apprehensively watching Sandy out of the corner of his eye. "And I'm sorry, okay?"

Sandy's head shot back as if he'd just been nailed with a sucker punch, his eyebrows furrowing in shocked confusion. Ryan, who must have been uncomfortable with the lack of reaction, turned his head a little more to stare at Sandy head on, his defeated eyes begging for some sort of forgiving response.

"Ryan…I…I wasn't expecting that," Sandy admitted honestly, linking his fingers together and letting his hands fall into his lap with a sigh.

The kid didn't move, he just sat there and waited for Sandy to continue.

"I wanted to talk to you because…I wanted to apologize. I shouldn't have allowed you to go this weekend, and I certainly shouldn't have let you play that game…. I've replayed that moment over and over in my head…and every time I yell at myself for not saying "no". I'm sorry, kid. I really am."

Sandy watched Ryan go through a less dramatic, but similar reaction to his own when he'd received the initial apology.

"I made the choice," Ryan mumbled through a yawn, "not you."

Sandy smiled at that, leaning back in his chair, suddenly much more relaxed. "But you see, Ryan, I too was seventeen once, and I know that when you're that age, it's impossible to walk away. You can't. It's like it's programmed in your brain not to turn away. But as a parent, it's my job to overrule those decisions. It's my job to make the decision that's in your best interest. Though you'd probably think I was just doing it to piss you off, because naturally, that's what parents do, it's just because I know what you don't." Sandy tilted his head back and lost himself in his thoughts. "It's what I like to call "wisdom", but really it's just because I'm old…and I've seen a hell of a lot more than you have. Even a kid like you who's had to endure more hardships than 90 percent of all kids out there, you still don't know what I know. It's one of the few perks that come with age, kid. I'm trying to take advantage of that _wisdom_."

Ryan just blinked a couple of times, raising his eyebrows for a second at the end of the speech.

"Yeah, I don't expect you to buy into that theory until you're much older, but I mean it, Ryan. I wouldn't lie to you."

Eyeing Sandy through strands of hair, Ryan tilted his head, his blue eyes rimmed with the red hue of exhaustion.

"You know," he started, turning away before continuing, "three people have apologized to me today, but this entire thing was my fault."

"It's not your fault, Ryan. You were…_attacked_ on the field!" Sandy exclaimed, extending his arms toward Ryan to illustrate his point.

"No…I mean…." Ryan's voice was shaking heavily, but it was clear he wasn't going to stop until he expressed confusion on the matter. "I went to that tournament. I let Johnson goad me back into the game. I chose not to listen to you." Though it didn't sound like Ryan had finished his thought, he seemed content to let it stand at that and closed his body down further.

Sandy recognized the natural human reaction to curl up when distressed, and decided not to pursue the matter any further until Ryan was a little more comfortable.

"Look, you just worry about getting better and we'll have plenty of time to sort this entire mess out when you're hanging around the house all summer." Sandy rose to his feet and arranged the pillows at the head of the bed into what he assumed would be most comfortable for the ailing teen. Placing a hand on Ryan's back, he gently lowered him back onto the mattress, pulling up several of the rumpled blankets that had been kicked to the bottom of the large bed.

"You gonna be okay? Can I get you anything?"

Ryan's eyelids twitched, but didn't separate. He let out a soft groan while shaking his head "no" with as little movement as possible.

Sandy brushed the hair from the kid's forehead, took a step back from the bed and let out his own stressed sigh before turning toward the door.

"Sandy?"

"Yeah?" Sandy responded to the tired calling of his name, pausing in the doorway.

"Can you send Seth in here for a sec?" The words were slurred together and under any other circumstances, Sandy would've sworn Ryan was drunk.

"Okay. But remember," Sandy added slyly, "you asked for it." He caught a flash of a grin through Ryan's pained expression, and smiled to himself while finishing his descent of the pool house stairs. Things were going to be all right.

------------------------

"Dude?"

Ryan tried to swallow his discomfort with little success.

"Dude? Dad said you wanted to see me. You awake?"

"Mmm," Ryan groaned, opening his eyes a crack to see Seth standing uncomfortably close. Despite the pain, Ryan made the effort to adjust his position, if only for the ability to remain awake for the short speech he owed Seth.

"Well?" Seth asked, sporting the same confused expression he'd been wearing all morning.

"Um…yeah," Ryan grunted as he finished rearranging his upper body on the stack of pillows behind him. "Guy. Pileup. Bottom. Me. Injuries…."

Seth's smile slowly expanded and, though feeble, he appreciated the effort on Ryan's part…the effort to be funny, that is.

"Good try, but you promised me a whole lot of adjectives," Seth mocked with the point of a finger.

Ryan nodded and closed his eyes in deep concentration as he prepared the words.

"Gigantic, colossal…bitter _guy. _Sudden…quick, big _pileup. _Heavy…pounded…flattened, _on the bottom. Me…_moaning, gasping…cringing_. _Many, painful…agonizing _injuries._"

Seth laughed occasionally and waited patiently as Ryan paused and fought to collect all the adjectives he could to explain the situation accurately.

"So, let me get this straight," Seth started once the list had been completed. "You were quickly, suddenly, pounded and flattened at the bottom of some big pileup by some gigantic, colossal, bitter guy, that caused you to moan, gasp and cringe due to the many, painful agonizing injuries you suffered?"

Ryan opened his eyes a crack in awe of Seth's recollection skills. Despite the fact that he felt as if every single one of his nerve endings had been set on fire, he couldn't help but smile.

"Well, that sounds pretty brutal, man. But thanks for painting such a beautiful picture for me. You've got such a way with words."

Ryan's smile grew but his eyes slid shut once again, his weariness winning out.

"Well, Ryan, I look forward to hearing more about this war you speak of."

"War," Ryan grumbled, trying out the word through the foggy barrier of sleep. "That sounds about right."

-Fin-


End file.
